Pax americana
by emma de los nardos
Summary: As John is preparing to leave 221B, Sherlock forces his hand with a surprise trip to NYC. But will Sherlock ever understand sentiment? Will John trust Sherlock not to harm him? NOW COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

Author's Note:

I'm writing a Christmas and New Year's story in real time for Sherlock and John. They're going on holiday to the city I call home—and rest assured, there will be high crime and international terrorism, baroque opera and stolen kisses, bespoke suits and gingerbread, mile-high Christmas trees, and all sorts of other holiday goodness.

Pre-slash for now, with eventual slashy themes. Separate from my prior AU in "Misdiagnosis" and "Diagnosis". Rated M for future chapters.

* * *

><p><span>Sunday, December 18, 2011<span>

"But it's Man City versus Arsenal today," John complained. "Just what is so important that I have to miss this game to tag along after you?"

"You won't be just tagging along," Sherlock said. "But this is your last chance. Pack a week's worth of clothes and be ready in an hour if you want to come."

"Right-o," John said, standing up from the couch and looking forlornly at the telly. Then he paused, thinking. "Sherlock!" he said loudly. His flatmate poked his head out from behind the kitchen door, where he was intently examining the contents of a pair of beakers.

"Hmm?"

"But if we're gone a week? That will put us there at Christmas!"

"Exactly," Sherlock said. His gray eyes stared pointedly at John's. "Is that a problem? I'd assumed that, given how things ended the last time you spent time with Harry…or were you planning on calling her up and wishing her a happy Christmas? Perhaps bring her a nice bottle of single malt as a gift? Come, John," Sherlock cajoled, watching his friend's jaw drop, "we all know that you and Harry aren't going to make up in time for Christmas. And an alcoholic isn't great company at the best of times, much less during the holidays….all that rum punch, all that eggnog! You'll be miserable if you stay here in London with her."

"And just why do you care so much?" John asked.

"John," Sherlock said, with a voice of patronising patience. "Is it so unusual for me to suggest a holiday?"

"Yes," John said. "First time I've heard it coming from you, Mister 'I-don't-eat-and-I-don't sleep.' I didn't think you went in for this kind of thing."

"Well, if you must know, this is a working trip," Sherlock said. "And it just so happens that it came along at a very convenient time."

"At _Christmas_? What's convenient about _that_? The crowds will be awful, we won't be able to book tickets—"

"—That's all taken care of, of course."

"—And everyone else will be at home spending time with family."

"Exactly," Sherlock. "So glad you see the logic here."

"We're leaving on a trip just so you don't have to spend time with Mycroft?"

Sherlock went silent. "I suppose that's one way to look at it. But Mycroft knows about this job, he's actually the one who set me up for it. He just didn't imagine that I'd get called away so soon, or at this time of year. It's _perfect_, don't you see? He's been nagging at me for months to consult for this organisation. And this way he can't complain when we miss Christmas dinner at our dear mother's home."

"Well, this makes much more sense, John said. "I didn't peg you as the type to go in for Christmas. All that good cheer—just doesn't seem like you."

"Bah humbug aside," Sherlock said, "Are you coming or not?"

"Where are we going? You might at least tell me that much. Warm? Cold? Mountains? Desert?"

"Cold," Sherlock said. "Urban. Bring a warm coat. They've had a mild winter so far but it's supposed to get colder over New Year's. And we might be spending quite a bit of time outdoors. Especially that night."

"So I'm not going to find out until we get to—how are we getting there, exactly? Train? Plane? Automobile? Donkey?"

"Aeroplane, John," Sherlock said. "The cab comes in 50 minutes. You better get showered and changed. And don't forget to bring your dress suit." He paused. "On second thought, scratch the suit. We'll get one for you there. My Christmas present to you."

"Any excuse to update my wardrobe, eh?" John walked across the room, resigned to the fact that wherever Sherlock said to go, he would follow. He was the man's consulting doctor, after all, and the great git had the tendency to get himself injured at an alarming rate.

"Not at all, John," Sherlock said. "I just wouldn't want you to be out of place among the ambassadors and the glitterati. And I was hoping to get a trip to the opera out of all this. The Met is putting on a delightful little Baroque mélange for the new year. Plácido is on the bill, and there's a charming new male soprano that I've been _dying_ to hear. You _will_ be a sport, now won't you?"

"Do I have a choice?" John muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs to his room.

"No," Sherlock called after him. "But I'll do my best to make this trip worth your time…."

* * *

><p>AN: My goal is to post a chapter every day or so until at least the New Year's (and the new series!). This is my gift to myself after a hard semester. The story will be told in "real time," meaning that I'm setting it _this very week, _in the city that I love, with everything happening here that really is happening. I'd be interested to see how many references you can find to real events and places! Moffat and Gatiss do such a great job setting the stage in London, that I can't resist placing their characters in another great metropolis. I hope it works!


	2. Pax I

A little more than an hour later, John and Sherlock were in a black cab headed to Heathrow Airport. The detective was slouched in one corner of the back seat, his eyes just visible above his high collar as he typed furiously at his phone. John, feeling ignored and not a little peeved at the situation – though usually he would not complain about a holiday on some else's bank account – stared out the window at the darkening streets. The football match started in about an hour and, by that time, he and Sherlock would be dragging their luggage through customs and nagging each other about the relative size of each others' suitcases.

Lestrade had even been planning to stop by before the game started and they probably would have ended up watching it in a pub together.

"Oh, dammit," John said suddenly. "Lestrade. I forgot to tell him we were leaving."

"I already did," Sherlock said in an even voice, not even looking up from his touchpad. "Saw him yesterday at the station and mentioned it to him."

"You _what_?" John sputtered. "You just went ahead and assumed that I'd come with you on this crazy trip? And what if I hadn't?"

Now Sherlock looked up and cocked an eyebrow. "I'm sure Lestrade wouldn't have minded you changing the plans on him a second time. Especially if it meant you accepting the invitation that I just rescinded for you."

"And just what is that supposed to mean, Sherlock?"

"You know that the inspector will jump at the chance to spend time with you, Doctor Watson."

John rubbed his forehead. He could feel the beginning of a headache coming on, and they hadn't even faced the crowds at the airport yet.

"I can assure you, it's not like that at all."

"If you say so," Sherlock said smugly.

John sighed loudly. "So, when are you going to tell me where we're going?"

Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and reached one gloved hand into an inside pocket, pulling out a long envelope and handing it to John.

"Open it," he directed. John took the envelope and found two plane tickets inside.

"New York John F. Kennedy airport," he said, whistling under his breath. "How did you get first class tickets, Sherlock? Mycroft pull some strings?" He smiled. Christmas in New York was an idea that he could get used to.

"My client has arranged everything for me and my partner_,_" Sherlock said. "And if you must know the reason, it's this: she believes that there may be multiple bomb attacks in Manhattan on New Year's Eve."

"Terrorists?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Since when did you become a counter-terrorism expert?"

"I'm not," Sherlock said. "But there may be a link to Moriarty. And Mycroft thought it would be best if I were there, to _consult _with his friend – that's our client – to be on call, as it were, in case they turn up some link to Moriarty that needs to be explored more thoroughly."

"Are you absolutely nutters, Sherlock?" John asked. "I thought we wanted to be _alive_ this New Year's. At least, that was my plan. Chasing after Moriarty in the middle of a possible terrorist threat in New York, on New Year's Eve – do you know how many people will be in the city that day? It will be a madhouse."

"I am quite aware that a considerable number of individuals congregate around 42nd Street each New Year's Eve, John. I couldn't imagine a worse way to spend a winter evening than rubbing elbows with one million tourists. But we won't be anywhere near there. We'll be at the opening gala for the _Enchanted __Island_."

"For _what_?"

"The opera, John," Sherlock said very patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. "I already explained that to you. The new suit, remember? We're going to the New Year's Eve gala at the Metropolitan Opera."

"But what does this have to do with your new case?"

"Nothing," Sherlock admitted. "But I love opera, and it was either this or _Butterfly _on the 30th, and while I'm sure I'd appreciate Minghella's set, you must agree with me that Puccini is a bit overplayed these days, isn't he?" Sherlock looked up at John again, smiling slightly at John's exasperated expression. "But think about a Baroque opera—a retelling of _The __Tempest_—an enchanted island—sounds quite a bit like the two of us wanderers, landing on foreign shores."

"Manhattan is an island, too, did you know that?" John laughed. "I should have figured that you'd take me to an enchanted island for a case."

"New York is quite bewitching in the winter, John," Sherlock said.

"I'm sure it is," his companion said. "But do we really have to go _quite_ so far to get away from Mycroft? Couldn't Ibiza have done just as well? A bit warmer, too."

"Hah!" Sherlock snorted. "Beach and bikini vacation, _not __on._ But no time to change our plans. Here we are." The cab pulled up to the airport. Sherlock opened the door and climbed out gingerly, his long coat brushing against his legs as he stood and waited for John to exit.

* * *

><p><span>Monday, December 19<span>

Twelve hours later, on American soil, John found himself pulling both his _and_ Sherlock's suitcase behind him as Sherlock took a phone call – from Mycroft, judging by the agitation on Sherlock's face – and then dashed away from John to get a head start in the taxi queue outside of Kennedy airport.

"I thought you said that Americans didn't form queues," John quipped when he met up with Sherlock.

"They don't," Sherlock said blandly. "They form _lines_."

"Excuse _me_," John said. "Going all Yankee on me, are you now?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and looked around them. "Can you smell that?" he asked.

"Smell what?" John asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Tobacco," Sherlock clarified, turning around. "I forgot – that's why I like New York. It's still not considered outré to smoke a fag or two around here."

John shook his head. Of all the reasons to like New York, only Sherlock would rank smoking as one of the city's chief charms.

The cab ride to the hotel passed by uneventfully. Even Sherlock was impressed by the sight of Manhattan's skyline, glittering in the morning light, as the cab made its way across the Triborough bridge. Sherlock had instructed the cabbie to avoid the Midtown Tunnel, and the view that met their eyes as they crossed from Queens to Manhattan was magnificent, the whole east side of Manhattan laid out before their eyes. John could see buildings that he recognized from American films and telly, but he couldn't say what it was that he was seeing.

"There's the Chrysler Building," Sherlock pointed as they crossed the bridge. "And you see that tall box of a building next to the river, by that bridge? That's the United Nations. We'll be going there tomorrow."

"We _will_?" John asked, surprised.

"Yes, that's where our client works," Sherlock explained. He turned to speak to the cabbie again. "_Cruzemos__ Harlem __por __la__ ciento __veinticinco.__"_

"_Sí,__ señor_," the cabbie responded. "¿_Usted__ vive__ aquí __en __Nueva __York?_"

"_No_," Sherlock continued in Spanish. "_Pero__ había__ una__ época __cuando __pasaba __mucho __tiempo __aquí.__" _To John he explained, "Judging by his accent, our cabbie is Puerto Rican. I'm asking him to take us across Harlem's main street. There won't be much besides traffic at this time of day, but it _is_ considered one of the city's more historic neighborhoods. We'll go by the Apollo Theater and the Cotton Club and you can see where Ella Fitzgerald and Stevie Wonder got their start, if you like that kind of thing." To the cabbie he continued in Spanish, "_Luego __nos __bajamos __por __la __Henry __Hudson. __Nuestra__ salida __está __en __la __cincuenta__ y__ siete._"

"_¿Tu__ compañero__ no __habla __español?__" _the cabbie asked, pointing his chin in John's direction.

"I speak French. And a little Pashto," John said defensively. "And I understood that much at least, Sherlock. You can tell him that."

"_Él__ dice__ que__ le __fascina__ el__ español_," Sherlock said. "_Ya __lo __aprenderá._"

"_Usted __es __de __España?__"_ asked the cabbie. Sherlock laughed and corrected him.

"_Soy__ inglés_," he said. "He thinks I'm from Spain," he whispered to John. "It must be the way I talk. I just can't drop that pesky Castilian lisp, even after all that time I spent with the Dominican drug mafia in New Jersey."

"I didn't even know that you spoke Spanish, much less that you could pose as a Chicano drug lord," John whispered back.

"Not Chicano," Sherlock said patronizingly. "_Dominican_, not Mexican. We're a long way from California, John."

"Dominican, Mexican, What's the difference?" John asked, puzzled.

"I'll pretend you didn't say that before you offend our cabbie by referring to Puerto Rico as a state."

"Isn't it a country?"

Sherlock shook his head. "John, John. It has commonwealth status. Meaning it's an American colony, basically."

"Ha! Since when do you know so much about American geography, Sherlock?"

"Just because I don't know the solar system doesn't mean that I'm completely ignorant of the state of the world," Sherlock said. "I told you, I spent some time infiltrating a Dominican drug gang a few years ago."

"That must have been a delight," John said sarcastically. To himself, he wondered if that particular operation had taken place before or after Sherlock had got clean. And just how did Sherlock speak Spanish so well? And why had he never mentioned to John that he'd lived in New York City?

Almost as if he heard John's thoughts, Sherlock continued. "I lived in Manhattan, yes, but the gang was running drugs from Jersey, over the George Washington Bridge. We'll be able to see it once we get on the highway. Ah, see, now we're turning south. See the river? That's the Hudson." The long shore stretched out before them and, on the other side, the high wooded cliffs of the Palisades. "Now look back, to the right." John turned and saw, behind them and up the river, a long gray bridge slung high above the water. "New Jersey is on the other side," Sherlock explained. "And the Dominicans live in the Heights, the northernmost neighborhood in northern Manhattan. So it was natural that they'd want to control the traffic that was coming across the bridge."

"Naturally," John agreed. "And so you had to get involved and stop them?"

"Something like that," Sherlock said. "Now, would you rather have Turkish or Mexican food tonight?"

"I thought you said there weren't any Mexicans in New York. And right now I'm more concerned about getting to our hotel and taking a nap than about planning what I'll eat in ten hours."

"Naps are so pedestrian, John," Sherlock said.

"Maybe so," John said. "But as I had no idea that I'd be travelling across the Atlantic last night, the least you can do is let me sleep a few more hours before we get down to business."

Sherlock nodded, preoccupied with the view of the river out of the window of the cab. John fell silent as well, taking in his first impressions of New York.

He shouldn't have been surprised by Sherlock's actions – he should have known by now that Sherlock was nothing if not unpredictable – but instead of the irritation that John had felt last night, as they jostled elbows with the crowd at Heathrow and he searched frantically for a television to view the Arsenal game, right now John felt only exhilaration. Sure, he knew that some of the high came from the lack of sleep on the plane ride over, but another part of him just couldn't believe that this was _his__ life._ Two years ago he had complained to his therapist that nothing ever happened to him, and here he was now, in another of the world's great cities, about to spend what would probably be the most exciting Christmas of his life. All because of Sherlock.

John sneaked a glance at his companion, who was back to typing at his phone. He felt a sudden surge of affection for the detective who, without even trying, had turned John's life around. When had John's respect for the other man turned to outright admiration? He could not say for certain, and nor could he say when that admiration had blossomed, almost imperceptibly, into affection and regard, and more recently, love.

He knew that Sherlock was still the most infuriating person he had ever met, but in the last year, and especially in the last few months, John had felt a growing pride in his unique ability to handle Sherlock's eccentricities. There was no doubt that Mycroft and Lestrade, and likely every other person at the Yard, were grateful that Sherlock now had a counterweight to his mad brilliance. Sherlock was a human whirlwind, and only John was able to find the silent eye of the storm and hold fast while all those around them were spun out of control by Sherlock's dizzying presence. Fortunately for John, he was the sort of person who, the more outrageous and chaotic a situation, the more he thrived in it. So it was safe to say that John was thriving at Sherlock's side almost as much as he had thrived in Afghanistan.

And even as John felt his own center come back into balance, felt his weight shift until he was comfortable in his body again, whether he was standing on the round, curving earth or flying high above it – even as this happened, he had sensed a reciprocal movement from Sherlock. Sherlock, who had seemed so high-strung and unpredictable when they had met, untrusting as a wild animal, rarely showed the whites of his eyes anymore. John couldn't remember the last time when Sherlock had relied on three nicotine patches to solve a case – two or even one now seemed sufficient. Furthermore, over the course of a few months, Sherlock's violin playing had gone from the dissonant sound of the wrong side of the bow hitting the strings (the technique actually had a name, John later found out: _col__ legno)_, to more explorative melodies, tentative jigs and sorrowful laments that Sherlock called his 'oriental fantasies'. When John had asked him about the composer, Sherlock had admitted that they were his own improvisations, based on Andalusian folk music and gypsy waltzes, Mexican _boleros_ and Klezmer dirges, with some inspiration from Vivaldi's violin concerti and Schubert's Lieder.

John didn't like to think of himself as the one who had _domesticated_ Sherlock, but there was no denying that it was much more pleasant to come home in the evening to sounds that were reminiscent of a Turkish bazaar (or an opium den?) than to wake in the middle of the night to a song like a cat in heat.

John's sleep had improved in other ways, as well. His nightmares were practically gone; it was as if, by facing danger on an almost daily basis at Sherlock's side, there was no space left in his dream life for long-ago terrors. His therapist had told him once of the compulsion to repeat trauma, common in those who suffer the extremities of human experience. But, John had thought, if running the streets of London alongside Sherlock was just another way his unconscious had of circumventing his fears, then he saw nothing wrong with that. He hadn't healed his shoulder by keeping it still, after all. No, it had required months of painful physiotherapy, of tugging again and again at the tender new muscle fibers until he had bent them back into their rightful course of movement. It had been painful, and he had sobbed more than once after an exercise session, but in the end he had a fully functional shoulder. If he had not moved it at that time, if he had not experienced the raw burn of muscle against bone, then he would have had a stiff arm for the rest of his life. Similarly, John suspected that if he had not run out of Angelo's restaurant after Sherlock that first night on a case together, then he might never have put down his cane.

What was astonishing, to John, was learning that Sherlock _already __knew_ _that __about__ him_. And not just that: Sherlock had _intended_ for John to follow him, in order that John's brain might forget for an hour that he was supposed to be a cripple, so that his legs might do the work they were trained to do. John had run that night like he had never run before, pounding down the streets of London after the madman in the long black coat. God, he had _loved_ it! He had loved the freedom of the city, the way the maze of streets resembled that other labyrinth, the desert. He had loved the intimacy of male companionship, knowing that the other man would match him stride for stride, and he loved that he could trust another human again, knowing that Sherlock depended equally on John for his own life. Following Sherlock when he went to meet the cabbie alone had not been a choice: it was a necessity, for John could not imagine letting his new companion leave his life just as abruptly as he had entered it. It was as if Sherlock's own wildness allowed John to put on a mantle of calm once again, to assume the role of protector and confidant and fighter that he had once carried with so much ease. For that, John had sensed an odd sort of gratitude from Sherlock, for, out of all of the people in the world, only John was strong enough to withstand Sherlock's destructive, corroding nature.

"We're here," Sherlock said, interrupting John's thoughts. "The Hudson Hotel." The cabbie pulled over and helped the two of them gather their luggage from the boot – _the __trunk_, John reminded himself – of the car, smiling and laughing with John as he struggled with counting out the right bills.

"_Gracias, __señor,_" the cabbie said before pulling off and leaving them to ascend the dark escalators to the hotel's entrance lounge. When they emerged at the top, the space opened up into a large, well-lit atrium. Green plants spilled off of the walls and rafters, and purple orchids wended their way through branches and twigs, reaching for the light from above. Water gushed down one wall and John was astonished to hear the chatter of finches. He spotted a number of delicate wooden bird cages, _à__ la__ chinoise,_ hanging over the reception area.

"We have a reservation," Sherlock said loudly, approaching the desk. A dark-skinned woman with fuchsia lips greeted him with a pleasant smile.

"Your names?" she asked in a clear, American accent.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

The woman typed at her keyboard. "Yes, here you are, Mr…?"

"Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes. You have the penthouse reserved until January 2nd, is that correct?"

"Correct," he said, brushing aside an invisible piece of lint from his coat.

"Will you and your partner require any additional services?" She inquired. "There's complimentary laundry and dry-cleaning, a full fitness center and pool area, access to Wi-Fi and the business suite. You may have visitors but they must be registered ahead of time here at the front desk. And, for a nominal fee, we can also arrange for spa treatments, transport around the city, and room-service delivery from select restaurants. Is there anything that we can do for you this morning?"

"Just a bed, that would be nice," John muttered under his breath.

"Dr. Watson." The chirpy receptionist addressed him now. "I think you'll be happy to find that we only use Tempurpedic mattresses and pillows, and the sheets are all organic Egyptian cotton, 500 count."

"Sounds very…restorative," John answered politely.

"Our porter will take your bags and show you the way up," she informed them. "Please let us know if there's anything else that we can do to make your stay more enjoyable."

John followed Sherlock and the porter, a short man with round glasses, to the elevators and up to the top floor. He should have expected as much from Sherlock, he reasoned to himself. Leave it to Sherlock to book them a penthouse suite in Manhattan. He could only imagine what Mycroft would say once his friend – Sherlock's client – received the bill.

As the elevator doors opened again, Sherlock turned to John. "Don't worry about the cost, John."

"What, _me_ worry? I mean, it's perfectly normal to stay in the penthouse suite when one comes to New York for the first time, isn't it? You _do_ realize that some of us have to work for a living, don't you?"

"I work," Sherlock said defensively, pausing to face his friend while the porter pushed past them with their bags, walking ahead to open the door to their room.

"Yes, you do, but you don't always charge people for your services. It's easy to forget about money when you have an estate backing you, Sherlock. And a _title_. In this day and age!"

"I told you, I don't concern myself about class differences and education and all that nonsense, John, and neither should you. You know that I consider you my equal." Sherlock looked down at him, suddenly tempted to run his fingers across John's cheek. But as he reached out his hand to do so, John turned away.

"Fine, just don't tell me that this is coming out of my army pension."

"It has all been paid for," Sherlock explained. "By our client."

"And just who is this client, may I ask?"

"The British ambassador to the U.N. Her delegation has this room on permanent reservation. She thought it would be adequate for our needs."

"I should say so!" John exclaimed as the porter opened the door and a rush of bright morning light hit their eyes. The suite was spacious, all warm wood floors and clean white furniture. John could see a door leading outside to an enclosed sunroom and another door leading to what he presumed was one of the bedrooms.

Sherlock looked around and smiled widely, clasping his hands together under his chin. "It's _perfect_," he said. "Isn't it, John?"

"Stunning," John said. Despite himself, he was impressed with the suite.

"Let me show you the bedroom," the porter said, leading them across the living room to the door beyond. He opened it to reveal a large, high bed, its eiderdown covering the same gleaming white as the rest of the quarters.

"Sherlock?" John asked, a bit nervously. "Is there another bedroom?"

The porter answered for them. "No, sir, this _is_ the bedroom."

John swallowed and cleared his throat. "I think there has been some mistake," he said.

"What mistake?" the porter asked. "Aren't you the guests of the Ambassador?"

"Yes," said John, "but we need another—"

"It's fine!" Sherlock interrupted brusquely. "Thank you for showing us the room. Please inform the desk that we'd like two bottles of still water and an ash tray."

"This is a non-smoking room, sir," the porter said. "The whole hotel is non-smoking."

"Is it?" Sherlock said. "I didn't know. Can't you make an exception, just this once?" He smiled flirtatiously and John almost laughed out loud at the strangeness of seeing such a smile on his friend's face.

"If you go out onto the terrace, beyond the solarium, you can smoke there. Just don't leave the door open when you do so. Is there anything else that I can do for you?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock said as the porter turned to leave. "And now, John? I believe you said something about getting to bed…?" He winked at the doctor, a devilish look still on his face.

"Why didn't you correct him about the room?" John asked.

"John, I hardly see what the problem is. You know I don't sleep when I'm on a case. I'll kip out here in the lounge if I need some rest. You can have the bed. Now, go and get your beauty sleep, doctor. I'm going out. Shall we meet downstairs in the lobby at, say…" He looked at his watch. "Two o'clock? That should give you plenty of time to rest, and it'll be just enough time for me to get to a meeting at the U.N. and back for lunch."

"You won't sleep, but you _will_ eat?" John asked, hopefully.

"When in Rome, John," Sherlock started. "When in Rome…" And with that, and a swirl of his long coat, he crossed the room in two strides and was gone.

John stood by himself for a minute in the center of the suite, examining the furniture a second time and scratching his head. Was he really so surprised that Sherlock had let his client book them a room with only one bed? Or was he more surprised at himself, that he had accepted it all so readily, with so little protest? _Do __as __the __Romans,_ John reminded himself. _Do __as __the __Romans._

And with that, he headed to the bedroom.


	3. Pax II

Author's Note: Thanks so much to Lastew, who has been my sounding board and beta for this project. You are marvellous and I'm so lucky to have your support. And thanks to SeenaC and Skyfullofstars for their kind reviews and encouragement.

~Emma

* * *

><p>The last time they had shared a hotel room – on a case involving a Welsh woollen mill and some stolen machinery – John had ended up returning to London a day early. Without Sherlock.<p>

That was six months ago. Six months since John had told Sherlock that he fancied him. Six months since Sherlock had reminded John that he "didn't do relationships." Six months since John had first contemplated leaving Baker Street. But somehow, whenever he determined to pack up his bags and leave, unable to stand the distracting presence of his flatmate any longer, something always came up. A missing widow in Hyde Park. A poisoned newspaper heiress. Murderous Catalonian twins. One case after another had filled their time in the last few months, and between his job at the surgery, and helping Sherlock, and writing up their cases on what had become quite the popular little blog, John had no time to look for a new flat. And so he stayed on, wondering if he wasn't a pathetic fool after all, to stick by Sherlock even when there was no hope of Sherlock returning his feelings.

John had been fed morsels of hope from time to time. A certain striking glance from Sherlock, or a tender tone of voice unexpectedly directed at him, and John would spend the rest of the day wondering just what went on in his friend's busy brain. He noticed, as he had always noticed, any changes in Sherlock's night-time habits. When they had first started living together, Sherlock disappeared with alarming frequency in the wee sma's, never leaving word of where he was or what he was up to_._ John supposed that his flatmate went out prowling for sex (or drugs) on those night-time rambles, but he had never asked Sherlock outright, and was relieved that those absences had diminished in the last year. But then he had to remind himself that even if Sherlock wasn't getting sex elsewhere, he certainly wasn't asking _John_ for it, either. This thought was usually enough to make John soberly consider his situation again. _I'm a crippled doctor who hangs around waiting for any scrap of attention that this brilliant creature throws my way. I'm pathetic, and I need to move on. _

He had just decided to do so, and was looking at listings for flat shares, when Sherlock had proposed this trip to New York. And now he was sharing a room again (and sharing a bed, if Sherlock ever got around to sleeping) with his maddeningly oblivious flatmate, the very one that he had decided he _needed to get over. _And soon. As in, _yesterday_. It was bloody awkward, this whole situation. Tomorrow John would insist on a change of rooms, or a change of hotels – let Sherlock deal with the cost! He was responsible for this bizarre setup, anyway.

_Why can't you just say 'no' to him, John Watson? _He thought to himself. _Why do you always let him have his own way? _He pulled the covers up over his head. Things couldn't continue like this for much longer or he'd be back to his weekly sessions with a psychiatrist.

* * *

><p>This is what John imagines must go through Sherlock's head as he walks through midtown on his way to the United Nations:<p>

_Sighted: Single female, of Italian descent, works as a paralegal at a large firm, on midmorning break. Companion: associate at same firm, Russian immigrant, male, mid-thirties, in love with her, won't say a word about it. Temperature: cold, good thing I brought my cold and gloves. Forgot New York could be so cold in the winter. Must remind John to button up. Ah, Fifth Avenue. Gucci, Armani, I see they built a new Apple Store. Plaza Hotel: lunch meeting with Mycroft, five years ago. Must text Mycroft about visit. Of course my plan covers international texting; I wouldn't leave home without it. Shoes: do they need a shine? No, still looking quite buffed. What is the name of the British Ambassador's miniature greyhound? Snappy? Sandy? No, Snappy. Yes. I never forget a name or a face – even if it's a dog's. I am the world's only consulting detective, after all. _

And this is what Sherlock inner monologue actually sounds like as he takes a more leisurely stroll across the southern end of Central Park:

_One room or two? Was I right to go with one? The suite certainly seems large enough. And I meant it when I said that I'd kip out on the sofa. But John – will he think — will he know it wasn't a mistake? Oh! Cigarettes. Left pocket. Lighter? No, matches. This city is heavenly. Ahh, much better. I can think again. John usually doesn't catch on to this kind of thing. But don't I **want** him to know? Isn't that the point, to bring him here? How can he **not** know? Haven't I dropped enough hints? He can't be thinking of leaving Baker Street. Not now. What more do I possibly have to do to get him to **see**? I can't just walk in and kiss the wanker while he's asleep – or can I? What if he tosses me out? Mycroft would be so pleased. Lestrade, too. Don't think about Lestrade. Don't think about the way he stares at John when he thinks you're not looking. You're always looking. Fuck. Fuck. I'm fucked. Where am I? They changed the bridle path. There's the Plaza. Re-orient. Turn right. South to 53rd street. Might as well see what they're up to at the MoMA. Not due at U.N. till noon. Will John be awake by then? Should I send him a text? What would I normally do? THINK, Sherlock. Love. Muddles. Everything. Can't think straight. Shut up! Shut up! Fuck. Should I send him a text? Order him to meet me later for lunch? Why did I mention dinner earlier, anyway? I never talk about food. He'll know something's wrong. I can't do this. I can't think. John, don't wake up just yet. I need more time. _

* * *

><p>Luckily for Sherlock, John contacted him first.<p>

_Where are you? JW_

Several minutes later, Sherlock answered.

_You're awake. Good. Take a cab to the U.N. I'll meet you at the entrance. Bring passport. SH_

_On my way. JW_

After a quick shower and change of clothes, John made his way downstairs and out to the street. He looked around. The hotel faced several tall buildings and traffic flowed by smoothly. Hoping that the wave to call a cab was universal, he put his hand up and was relieved when a yellow taxi pulled up within a few seconds.

Feeling very much like the tourist he was, John spent the short ride across town with his nose pressed to the window. His cabbie took a route that followed the side of what John assumed must be Central Park, before turning right and heading down Fifth Avenue, with its high-end flagship stores and waves of sidewalk shoppers. John suspected that the cabbie wasn't taking the most direct path to the U.N., but given that it was his first time in the city, he hardly cared. He suddenly felt lonely, wishing that he had Sherlock to point out the important landmarks and to tell him anecdotes of his time in the city.

Sherlock was waiting inside the entrance to the U.N., just past the security checkpoint. After John showed his passport and was scanned several times, he joined his friend.

"Come with me," Sherlock said. "The Ambassador is in another meeting right now so I thought I'd fill you in. Lunch?"

"You, eating again?" John laughed. "Yes, please."

"The Ambassador got us a reservation," Sherlock explained. "In the delegates' dining room. Come." He led John through several doors and passageways, seemingly at home in the large building, until they came to the dining room. "This is where they have balls and other events," Sherlock explained, waving his hand to the high ceilings. "But in the daytime, it's just an ordinary cafeteria."

"Look at that view, Sherlock," John said, heading over to the wall of windows at the far end of the room. Sherlock watched him from close behind, John's torso silhouetted against the bright light streaming in and off of the river. "What are we looking at now?" John asked.

"The East River. Beyond is Brooklyn and Queens, where we came from this morning."

"It's amazing," John said. Sherlock smiled.

"Shall we eat? It's a buffet."

While John picked his way through the tables of food, Sherlock found an empty table somewhat apart from the rest.

"They have Shanghai dumplings and shepherd's pie and shawarma," John commented as he returned with a tray piled high with food. "Quite the international smorgasbord. Sure you don't want anything?"

"I will have a dumpling," Sherlock announced, as if this were a giant concession. Fortunately, John had brought back an extra plate, which he proceeded to fill with a half-dozen soup dumplings for Sherlock.

"What's going on?" John asked, sitting down. "Tell me about the case."

Sherlock looked around carefully, as if he feared seeing someone in the dining room who might have something to do with what he was about to say. After a long appraisal, he seemed satisfied that they were safe to talk there.

"I told you that that there may be another terrorist attack – a bomb – at Times Square on New Year's Eve."

"Yes. How do you know that? And what does it have to do with the British ambassador?"

"There are a number of possible targets that night besides Times Square. All of the city's major sites are at risk, including the U.N."

"Isn't that always the case?" John asked. "I mean, it would be a real coup for a terrorist to take down another building in New York, especially on New Year's Eve. What makes it different this time? Why is the British Ambassador involved?"

"She's involved because, unfortunately, about ten years ago, when she was stationed in Colombia as the British Ambassador, a major U.N. arms shipment went missing en route to Bogotá."

"Don't tell me you suspect that the Ambassador had anything to do with _that!_"

"No, she didn't," Sherlock admitted. "At least, I don't think she did. But she had been pushing for more U.N. aid to help fight narcotraffickers in the region. Very controversial at the time, international involvement in the Andes."

"Yes, I recall. I do know _something_ about international peacekeeping."

Sherlock smiled to himself. "Yes, John. Anything for Queen and country. I do remember. The point is, the U.N. shipment of arms went missing. Usually, a missing shipment of very lethal weapons will turn up within a few years on the black market. But no one had been able to track down this particular package — at least not until recently."

"And? What have they found?"

"Part of the shipment was sold last week, to an unknown buyer in the Mexican Riviera. The CIA and MI-6 suspect that it is another Columbian connection; the Columbians are operating out of Mexico now that the drug trade has shifted north."

"Sherlock, this doesn't really seem to be your speciality." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I mean, aren't international drug cartels and arms dealers the kind of thing that Mycroft usually takes care of?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to make eye contact with John. They both knew that Mycroft _was_ MI-6, but neither had ever voiced that truth aloud.

"I agreed to help him."

"You _what?_" John raised his voice in surprise. "I thought we were here so that you could _avoid_ Mycroft this Christmas. And now you tell me that you're here _to help him_? Is he here, too?"

"John." Sherlock looked around anxiously, as if he feared seeing someone.

"I'm listening, Sherlock." John cocked his head and stared steadily at Sherlock.

"John—"

"I thought that we agreed that you wouldn't take on any more of the really dangerous cases."

"John—"

"And this sounds dangerous to me. This isn't your run-of-the-mill London murder. This is much bigger. Now we're talking about SIX? Shouldn't we leave them to do their own jobs? We don't have the back-up they do, we don't have the training. Why are we getting caught up in all this?" He was practically hissing the words at Sherlock.

"John…" Sherlock said meekly. "Will you listen to me?"

John looked sheepish. "Of course I will. Sorry."

"I agreed to take on this case as a favour to Mycroft." John nodded.

"A favour. I see." But John didn't see. He still had questions. "Why now?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Because there's going to be another terrorist attack in New York in eleven days."

"That explains why the NYPD should be busting their arses off right now. But it doesn't explain why you have decided to help _Mycroft_. Now."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, Sherlock. Look," John sighed. "I know you well enough by now to know that you _never_ help your brother unless there's something that you'll get in return. So forgive me – you did drag me into this, after all – if I'm curious as to why you're so eager to help him just now."

"I can't tell you," Sherlock said.

"I see. You _can't tell me._ Right. You're going to have to do better than that, Sherlock. If I've come all the way to New York just to humour you…."

"It's not like that, John," Sherlock said, almost pleading. "I _wanted_ you to come with me. I thought you would _enjoy_ this holiday." To himself, he thought, _I did it for you. For us._

"If this is your idea of a Christmas present, Sherlock…" he said threateningly.

"There was something that Mycroft agreed to do for me, if I would help him with this one puzzle." Things were not going _at all_ like Sherlock had planned. John wasn't supposed to get angry at him. John wasn't supposed to ask questions. John was supposed to take naps in the posh hotel and join Sherlock for meals and enjoy himself, exploring Soho and Tribeca and the Upper West Side, while Sherlock sat through boring meetings with Ambassador Barrett and Mycroft and the CIA reps. John was here to enjoy himself, and his reaction was wrong. All wrong. Why couldn't he see that Sherlock wanted him there just because he was _John_? It made Sherlock feel all atremble to know, this morning, that John was sleeping in _their_ hotel room, warm and safe in _their_ bed, while he was walking through the city. Why did John always want explanations? Why couldn't he see what Sherlock felt without Sherlock having to describe everything in such detail?

"So, let me see if I understand. You help Mycroft with this…puzzle…and meanwhile I do, what, exactly?"

Sherlock swallowed and improvised an answer. "I need you to check out a few sites around town," he said with more confidence than he felt.

"Right. While you are doing what, exactly?"

"There is another set of meetings this afternoon that I must attend. Meanwhile, I suggest you go here –" Sherlock took out a business card and handed it to John. "I sent them your measurements a few weeks ago and they have an initial mock-up ready for you to try on. They assured me that if you came in right away, they'd be able to finish the suit for you in just a few days. I told them you'd stop by this afternoon."

"I suppose I don't have any choice about this, do I?" John said glumly. "You're determined to make something out of the ugly duckling. I told you, I already have a perfectly serviceable suit."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Please, John."

"Alright! God forbid someone should think that you actually let me out of the house dressed in an old suit!"

"It's a present, John," Sherlock said softly. "Just go there. Try it on. If you don't like it, we'll get you something different."

"You don't have to buy me presents, Sherlock," he said. He didn't like the way that Sherlock could so easily get his hopes up, without even being aware that he was doing so. Normal flatmates didn't buy each other suits – not that Sherlock had ever been normal. _He's probably just tired of being seen with someone who doesn't dress at his level, _John thought. _I'm not clever enough for him, I don't dress well enough for him. I understand. But still: can't he see what this looks like to me? How, if he felt the same way about me that I feel about him, I'd be overjoyed if he offered me expensive presents. But he's made it clear that he doesn't want a relationship. So  
>how can he be so heartless? Am I just a game to him? "Pity Poor John" or something?<em>

Sherlock reached out to touch John's shoulder. John flinched away and Sherlock pulled his hand back, not wanting to let on how it made him feel to see John turn away from him. John took a deep breath and faced Sherlock again.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Don't know what came over me. Must be the jetlag. Thanks so much for the gift. I'm sure it will be perfect." He whistled. "So, when are we going to see each other again?" _Damn_, he thought, _that didn't come out quite the way I wanted it to. _

"Dinner at eight? Kashkaval's, on the west side, near our hotel. I'll text you the address," Sherlock said, standing. He straightened his jacket, brush off a crumb, and looked down at John. "I suggest taking a cab to the tailor's. There won't be much sun left when you get out of there and you'll want to take advantage of the daylight while you can."

"Dinner at eight, then," John said.

"Laters," said Sherlock.


	4. Pax III

Pax III

* * *

><p>Sherlock was pleased to see that John arrived at Kashkaval that evening in what appeared to be a happy mood. Sherlock waved him over and John, shopping bags in hand, squeezed next to him at a miniscule table in the corner.<p>

"Popular place, isn't it?" John asked.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, looking pointedly at John's bags. "Those aren't from the tailor's," he observed.

"No, they're not." John smiled. "Decided to do some shopping. You know, spend my pounds while they're still worth something."

"Yes, the American dollar is weak, that's true," Sherlock said. "Let me guess: you bought some jumpers, a new pair of jeans, and a pair of sneakers. Pumas?"

John grumbled. "I really can't keep any secretes from you, can I?" he asked. Sherlock thought otherwise but didn't mention it. "I think even _you_ will approve of the jumpers, though. They're a cashmere blend."

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked, in a bored tone. "Am I going to get a fashion show when we get back to the hotel, then?"

John blushed. "I just said that because I know how much you like clothes."

Sherlock stared hard at him, trying to discern if there was a deeper meaning to John's words. It was strange that John had gone clothes shopping, after he made all of that fuss about the tailor's during lunch. _He must have really enjoyed it, _Sherlock thought. Of course, he knew that John had had a good time at Michael Andrews – he had called up the Jones Street store earlier that evening to inquire about the fitting – but it was one thing for John to behave nicely to the tailor, another thing altogether for him to voluntarily hit the streets and shop for himself. Sherlock looked forward to seeing what John had purchased; his suggestion of a fashion show wasn't entirely a joke.

"So, Sherlock," John began. "I've walked all around the 'lower east side,' as the tailor said the neighborhood was called. I made it to Little Italy, Tribeca, and the West Village. I think I may have seen Gisele. What's on for tomorrow?" John noticed how, with the table so small and the space so tight, his knees and Sherlock's knees were touching. He tried to move his legs away from Sherlock but there wasn't room and he almost upset the table in the process. Sherlock looked at him strangely, putting one hand on the table to steady it and the other on John's shoulder. John didn't flinch this time, but Sherlock quickly removed his hand, remembering how he had responded to him at lunch.

"Tomorrow I have to meet with several people from the NYPD in the late afternoon. Other than that, I thought we might take a stroll in Central Park, visit Museum Mile. Those kinds of things."

"Is the great Sherlock Holmes actually suggesting that we visit a museum for _fun?_ And not just because we're staking out the place?"

"It would be a shame to miss the renovations at the gallery of Islamic Art at the Met," Sherlock commented. "And the Guggenheim has a Kandinsky exhibit right now. Perhaps we'll have to take a few days for the museums," he mused aloud. "There's also the Frick – my favourite museum in the city. Where should we begin?"

"You astound me, Sherlock," John said, laughing.

"I do?" Sherlock frowned.

"I never know you appreciated art so much."

"Really, John – I've never hidden the fact that my mother's family collected art. I had to learn _something _about it or she would have been ashamed to bring me to family dinners."

"Your family is quite something, Sherlock. You know that?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said primly, not sure if that was a compliment or not. "Shall we order? Their cheese plates are excellent, as is the wine list. If you don't mind…" He paused. "I could order for us?"

"That would be excellent, Sherlock," John said, relaxing a bit more into his ordinary, jovial self.

* * *

><p>After half a bottle of wine, a hearty Mediterranean meal, and a sliver of baklava, John was feeling even more comfortable. The restaurant reminded him a bit of Angelo's, with the dim lighting and the small tables, and the smell of olive oil and garlic. Sherlock looked especially entrancing in the candlelight, his hair falling in his eyes as he cocked his head to listen to John. He could feel the eyes of other patrons on them as he told Sherlock about his mishaps at the tailor's, making Sherlock laugh so heartily that he almost lost his balance on the tiny stool. This time John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders to keep him from tipping over. His hands lingered over Sherlock's lapels as the other man's laughter died down and he collected himself.<p>

"You all right?" John asked, releasing Sherlock. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, as if he had something caught in his throat.

"Quite," Sherlock said distractedly. He had liked the hot feel of John's hands on his chest but he didn't know how to keep them there. "Shall we get the check and head back?"

John assented. Once they had paid, they began to walk up Ninth Avenue, towards the Hudson Hotel. John looked eagerly about them as they went, watching the other pedestrians and wondering what it would be like to live in New York instead of in London. The cold air on his face felt refreshing after the hot restaurant. John was full of wine and good food, and he almost forgot that they had yet to take care of the bed problem.

Sherlock whistled to himself as they climbed the escalator to the lobby, leading John to the elevator without a glance at reception.

"Sherlock…" John began hesitantly. "Don't you think we should get a cot or something for you to sleep on tonight? Then we can change rooms tomorrow."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said abruptly. "I told you, the sofa is more than adequate for my purposes."

"Why didn't someone tell me I was going to share a room with a vampire? You never sleep at night, do you?" John said under his breath. The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched as the elevator doors opened on their floor.

Sherlock immediately went to the living room, turned on his computer, and began to review some documents that the ambassador had sent him. John announced that he was going to sleep and walked into the bedroom.

"Sherlock!" he shouted through the door a few seconds later. "There must have been some mistake! Come look at this!"

Sherlock looked up, as if only mildly interested, then turned back to the computer.

"What mistake, John?"

"Someone left a bouquet of roses here," he shouted. "There's a card, too."

Sherlock jumped up and ran into the bedroom. He snatched the card from John's hands before the other man could open it.

"I wonder if it's complimentary, that kind of thing," John said.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "Hotels don't usually send two dozen red roses to their guests."

"Even in the penthouse? This suite must cost a fortune. It's the least they can do. Other than providing two beds, that is." He was aware that Sherlock had moved to sit next to him on the bed. The detective had a puzzled look as he examined the envelope. _Leave it to Sherlock to want to know everything about the sender before he even opens the card, _John thought.

Satisfied that he had deduced as much as he could from the outside, Sherlock slid a long finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open, holding the card away from John as he read it.

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathed. "That bastard." John reached to grab the card from him but Sherlock held it high above his head.

"It's mine," he announced. John giggled and leaned across Sherlock, stretching his arm to bat at the card. But Sherlock rolled quickly to the other side of the bed, where he lay on his back as John fell face-first on the eiderdown. John laughed even harder, then sat up again and redoubled his efforts to get the card from Sherlock. He crawled over and secured the detective's arms, flipping Sherlock and roughly pinning him facedown on the bed.

It had been a long time since Sherlock and John had engaged in any roughhousing. There was a period, when they first started to live together, when it was common for them to practice handholds and bear-hugs and neck locks on each other. Sherlock had recognized that he could learn something from a trained fighter like John, and he decided that John was the perfect person to carry out stealth attacks on 221B. Thus passed a couple of months when John hid in the hallway and the alley every so often, waiting for Sherlock to come by so that he could tackle him or strangle him or pull him to the ground. It had been great fun, as far as John was concerned, until Sherlock learned to beat him at his own game. And then Sherlock had turned the tables and began to wait for _him_ in all of the dark corners between Tesco and their flat. John had called a truce after Sherlock knocked him and two cartons of eggs to the ground; he couldn't bear the idea of so much wasted food. Nor did he relish the thought of another shoulder injury.

The way that John had Sherlock pinned underneath him, now, reminded him of those early days when he was not yet self-conscious around Sherlock, when it didn't _mean _anything if one of them walked around the flat without a shirt on, or if Sherlock leaned a little too closely over his head to look at the computer where John was working on his blog, or if one of them left the shower with only a short towel around his hips. There had been such ease in each other's company back then, and John wondered when they had lost that. Was it during the trip to Wales? He thought it might have begun even earlier. Who had started it? Who had pulled back first?

"John," Sherlock panted. "Don't read it. It's not for you."

John ignored Sherlock's pleas and sat down more firmly on his friend's back, opening the card with his free hand. Sherlock made a weak show of protest, pushing up against John's legs, but John kept his hands pinned tightly together while Sherlock grunted in pain.

John's eyes quickly scanned the card. _I believe congratulations are in order, _it read. _Cheers to the happy couple. _John shook his head.

"Why wouldn't you show this to me, Sherlock?" he asked, confused. "It's just one of Mycroft's jokes." John sat up, letting the other man go. Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt, hastily tucking it back into his trousers. It had come loose when he was pinned under John.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. Sherlock had a strange expression on his face, one that John couldn't read. The speed with which he pulled away from John, the frantic way he fixed his clothes, his refusal to answer John's question – it all suggested that the idea of them being a couple had made Sherlock uncomfortable, even if it was just an old joke of Mycroft's.

"Some joke," Sherlock muttered. "He's always thought that…"

"I know, I know," John said. "But if it doesn't bother me, why should it bother you?" Sherlock must have hidden the note because he didn't want John to start thinking along those lines again, John reasoned.

"It doesn't bother me," Sherlock said snappishly. "I just hate the idea that he knows where we are."

"Who are you kidding, Sherlock? You know that man has us under every kind of surveillance there is. I wouldn't be surprised if the suite was bugged before we even got here, or if the hotel had no idea about this 'special delivery.' "

Sherlock smiled, relaxing slightly. _John is not upset_, he thought. _John's not upset. John's not upset. _

"I think I'll go get ready for bed," Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Let me know when the bathroom's free," John said. "And sleep well. If you sleep at all."

* * *

><p>Author's note: I think I am being overly ambitious here to think that I can publish a chapter a day until the new year, but I will do the best that I can, given all my other responsibilities (familial and academic) in the coming week. And it means a lot to me to read your comments and to know that this story is keeping someone else entertained as well! So keep them coming! And there are more revelations to come for these two...plus a few trips to museums.<p>

P.S. Lastew, where would I be without you on this story?

~Emma


	5. Pax IV

December 20, 2011

When John rose the next day, Sherlock was already awake and working on his laptop in the living room. There was no sign that he had slept, on the sofa or elsewhere.

"Morning," Sherlock said absentmindedly. "Breakfast's on the table." He waved one hand towards a large spread of coffee, bagels, cream cheese, and fruit.

"Are we still going to the museums today?" John asked, stretching his arms above his head as he yawned. Sherlock's eyes followed the narrow strip of skin that was exposed when John's t-shirt rode up his chest. John was looking thinner these days; Sherlock knew that he had been spending more time at the gym, but he hadn't realized just how strong John had become until he'd been pinned down by him the night before. _It's nice to see John in fighting form again_, Sherlock mused. _He must feel more like his old self, more like the man he was before his injury._

"Yes. Soon as you eat and get dressed, we'll head out."

An hour later, the two men made their way on foot across Central Park, following the same footpath that Sherlock had taken yesterday and then continuing onwards until they reached the Egyptian obelisk that marked the back of the Metropolitan Museum. Horse-drawn carriages and cyclists jostled for space on the park's only road, but Sherlock led them on the quieter footpath that bordered the main thoroughfare. The air was frigid, and they walked quickly to keep warm. It was a beautiful day, nonetheless. The sun shone brightly above the bare branches of the park's trees. Snow hadn't fallen yet in New York, and the ground was hard and dry.

"I still can't believe we're here," John said, pausing to look at the back of the Museum. "In New York, I mean."

"I knew what you meant," Sherlock said. "Didn't you ever think of coming to America before?"

John shook his head. "It always seemed a bit boring to me," he admitted. "I was one of those kids who thought that travel only counted if the people there spoke a different language and did strange things, like eat monkey brains. America just seemed like another version of England. Not much to write home about, I always thought."

"And so you got yourself shipped off to Afghanistan," Sherlock noted.

"Yes, but I did a fair bit of travel before that, as an adult. I spent some time in Senegal after uni – that's where I learned most of my French – just bumming about. And I have seen most of Europe at this point, too. The only time I thought I might come to America was when one of the American soldiers I treated invited me to his parents' ranch in Montana. He kept going on and on about Big Sky Country and I thought I might visit him one day."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked. "Why didn't you?"

"He was shot again a few months before I was invalided," John said. "And he died. Then there didn't seem to be any point in visiting his family without him. It would have been too sad, for all of us."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. He never knew what to say when John spoke about his fallen comrades-in-arms. Was he supposed to say he was _sorry_? Sorry was when you make a mistake, and Sherlock hadn't had anything to do with those losses. Was he supposed to give John a hug? That's what people did, sometimes, when others were upset. Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to face John.

"Would you like a hug?" he asked.

John burst out laughing. "What in the world, Sherlock? I'm quite all right, I assure you." He wiped a tear from his eye. "That was several years ago. Sam was a good buddy, but we didn't know each other _that_ well. I'm not in mourning or anything." He laughed again.

Sherlock stiffened. That gesture had _not _gone the way he had hoped. _At least I asked first, _Sherlock thought. _I couldn't bear it if he pushed me away._ _But what was so funny about me offering to give him a hug? I thought that's what friends did for each other. _It did not occur to Sherlock that it was not the gesture, but rather the person that it was coming from, that seemed out of place, and thus humorous, to John.

"Shall we go in?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the Museum.

"Lead the way," John said, shaking his head. Sherlock never stopped astonishing him.

The atrium just inside the Museum's entrance already held a large crowd of visitors. An enormous floral arrangement dominated the space, all pine boughs and holly, mistletoe and silver bells. Chamber music wafted down from an upper balcony; Sherlock recognized the sonorous strings of Corelli's Christmas Concerto and smiled.

"Where to, Sherlock?" John asked. "You're the one who knows your way around this city."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "There are a few Rodins that I always visit when I come here. They're upstairs." He pointed to a wide stairway that led into the main wing of the museum.

"All right," John said, trying to recall if he knew anything about Rodin.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs two steps at a time, his coat flying out behind him. When he reached the top he looked down at John. "Come _on_," he said.

John trudged up the rest of the stairs. "What's the rush, Sherlock? The statues will still be here tomorrow."

"We don't have much time, John, if we're going to see the new Islamic wing. I have to get back to the U.N. by noon. Come _on_."

They entered the European wing side by side. "Now," Sherlock said, "They seem to have rearranged things. Ah! The _Majas. _Come John, look at this Goya! Not what you'd find in Spain, of course, and the Met doesn't have many of the _Caprichos_, but still. You take what you can get." John followed Sherlock obediently to a large oil painting of two young Spanish courtesans on a balcony. "This is a kind of _memento mori_. The two young women – representing life, lust, love – are in the foreground, while those two dark, mysterious figures linger in the shadows. A reminder of death's ever-constant presence in life."

"It's a bit eerie," John noted.

"Exactly." Sherlock turned and gave John a toothsome grin. "Do you want to see more? Let's try to find the _Caprichos._"

After asking a guard and wandering through a few more galleries, they found what Sherlock was looking for. Sherlock had to tow John by the arm to get there, because every few feet John's attention was arrested by yet another masterpiece that he _knew _he had seen somewhere before_._ But when Sherlock took John's hand to urge him along, he meekly allowed himself to be guided to Goya's sketches.

"I love the _Caprichos_," Sherlock said, seeming to forget that he still held John's hand. With the other, he gesticulated towards the first of the etchings. "Behold: "_El sueño de la razón produce monstruos."_

John pulled his hand back. "What does it mean, Sherlock?"

"The dream of reason produces monsters. Fantastic. The idea that, out of reason's twisted nightmare, monsters emerge."

"Right," John said. "I can think of a few dreams like that."

"You can?" Sherlock asked, surprised. He looked into John's blue eyes and waited for him to speak.

John was flustered. Sherlock was close to him – almost too close – and he wondered if Sherlock would again offer to hug him if he mentioned his own nightmares.

"Well, there's war. Countries always think they're entering war for logical reasons. But in the end – it's a strange kind of logic that says that you have to kill others in order to ensure the safety of your own people."

"Hmm," Sherlock said.

"Kind of like – kind of like how terrorists think that they are acting in God's name – well, the religious ones do – and that is its own horrific form of logic. Because what kind of God would countenance the killing of other people? So theirs is a logic that produces monsters, I think."

_John, you are extraordinary,_ Sherlock thought. _You are – you **understand** things. You don't know about art, of course you don't, but you understand it just the same. You understand it better than all of those pretentious tutors Mother used to bring around. And you cut to the heart of the matter – you say what you mean. Not like Mummy. Not like Mycroft. Do you know how rare your kind of honesty is? Do you know what that means to me? Can you understand how a child, surrounded by adults who told half-lies all day long – can you understand how much I value the **truth? **How I can't bear to let secrets lie hidden? They must be brought to the surface, all those dark monsters that reason produces. Bring them out into the daylight, so that they lose their power. Freud knew this. He knew about the twinkling allure of logic and the power that the unconscious – our dreams, our jokes, our slips of the tongue – had to undermine our rational selves. And I think you know this, too, or you would not have said all of this._

John continued. "And then there are the ordinary lies that people tell themselves. They think they have to live their lives one way, get married, have children, buy a flat, that kind of thing. That's another kind of logic that produces monsters – and I don't mean little children, I just mean it produces something monstrous when you don't let yourself have the things that you really want."

"What kind of life do _you_ want, John?" Sherlock asked softly, intensely, passionately. John was taken aback by his vehemence.

"I have the life that I want to lead, Sherlock," he said slowly. "I haven't followed a logical course. Quite the opposite, really. Most people would think I'm crazy. Why go to medical school just to join the army? Why do I chase after crooks with you when I could be setting up my own medical practice in Manchester or Brighton? I'm not doing any of the things a man my age, with my education, is supposed to do. Hell, most of our acquaintances think I'm mad as a hatter to live with _you_, Sherlock." _And I think I'm mad sometimes, too_, John added silently to himself.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is everything all right?

Sherlock shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "I'm perfectly fine, John. I'm sorry I asked."

"You don't have to apologize. I didn't say anything that you didn't know already."

Sherlock grunted in assent. "Despite appearances to the contrary, John, I don't know _everything_ about you."

"You could have fooled me," John said, almost ruefully. "Now, weren't we going to see those Rodins?"

"Adam and Eve from the Gates of Paradise!" Sherlock exclaimed, remembering why he had wanted to bring John to this exhibit. "But, John – "

"Yes?"

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

John wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. "Am I enjoying myself? What a strange question to ask, Sherlock." He meant, it was a strange question for Sherlock Holmes to be asking. Couldn't he deduce as much?

"It's not strange," Sherlock insisted. "I mean, are you enjoying yourself here with _me_?"

John blushed. "Sherlock, do you seriously think that I'd be here, in New York, letting you pull me around the gallery and getting a lesson in art history, if I weren't enjoying myself?"

"Then why do you want to leave Baker Street? Why do you want to stop working together?"

"When did I say anything about that, Sherlock?"

"You didn't. The real estate section was missing from the paper two mornings in a row. And I heard you asking Lestrade about flatshares in his neighborhood. So I concluded you were looking for somewhere new."

"Yes, Sherlock, I am looking." John sighed and put a hand to his forehead. He so did _not_ want to be having this conversation right now.

"Why?" Sherlock asked archly.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't think this is the time or place to be discussing this."

"So you admit that you were looking for a new flat."

"Sherlock - I - I already told you. What more do you want me to say? Can't we leave this for later?"

"I want you to tell me the truth."

"In what sense?"

"Don't be so dull, John. I want to know: are you leaving or not?"

"Sherlock! I said, I do _not_ want to talk about this right now. Can't we just enjoy our morning in the museum?"

"Promise me you won't leave without telling me first what is wrong. Something _must _be wrong."

John rubbed his head. "Sometimes, Sherlock, you are - insufferable. I told you I didn't want to talk about this right now. I'm looking, that's all. I haven't made up my mind. Didn't you hear _anything _I said? Or does everything have to be about you, all the time? You want things when you want them, but the world doesn't work like that. Please, try to conduct yourself like a grown man, and let me make my own decisions!"

Sherlock inhaled sharply and straightened his back. They were quite close now, staring hard at each other, and John raised his hand as if to wag a finger. Several museum-goers were staring at them now, at the tall dark detective and the shorter, bullish man who were engaged in a battle of wills in the middle of the European galleries. Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then thought better and shut it again.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked, a hint of anger still in his voice.

"I want you to stop being so selfish, Sherlock. I want you to think about _my_ feelings once in a while. I want you to remember that the entire world doesn't revolve you and your need for intellectual stimulation."

"I thought you enjoyed my company," Sherlock said coldly.

"I _do_, Sherlock. It's not about that. It's just - can't you just give things a rest? Stop thinking so much. Stop asking other people to entertain you. It's almost half-past eleven. Go do the consulting gig you came here to do, and we'll meet up later."

"What are _you _going to do, in the meanwhile?" Sherlock asked, curious despite himself.

"I'm sure I can find something to keep myself entertained," John replied. "This is New York, after all. Maybe I'll go see Hugh Jackman's show on Broadway."

"Who?"

"Never mind, Sherlock," John said. "I was just kidding. You know I don't like musical theatre, anyway." There was no point in trying to make Sherlock jealous of celebrities, when their names meant nothing to him. He laughed out loud and Sherlock smiled despite himself. _The good thing about John_, he mused, _is that he doesn't stay angry for long._

* * *

><p>Mycroft, on the other hand, was the sort to harbour a grudge for years, as Sherlock well knew. When he met up with his brother in the delegates' dining room mid-afternoon, after an exhausting round of meetings, Mycroft twirled his umbrella and glared stonily at Sherlock before speaking.<p>

"You weren't to take matters into your own hands, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock sat down next to him. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning you were supposed to let _me_ speak to the NYPD first. I know the police commissioner can't tell one British voice from another, but did you really think I was going to let you get away with impersonating me again, Sherlock?"

"I don't think I ever get away with _anything_ under your watch, Mycroft. But seeing as that you're the _master_ at taking things in your own hands - next time make sure the roses are thornless, if you're going to bother sending us a bouquet. You wouldn't want me to prick my little finger and fall into a deep slumber just when you need my help."

"I'm sure John could mend any little scrape you have, Sherlock," Mycroft said smugly. "Or wake you up from a hundred-year slumber with a well-timed kiss. He's quite handy, isn't he?"

"Leave John out of this," Sherlock said threateningly.

"Trouble in paradise, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text message.

_When are you done with the meeting? JW_

Sherlock, happy for an excuse to ignore Mycroft, quickly replied.

_Not soon enough. SH_

_What do you mean? JW_

_I'm here with the last living tyrant of the free world. SH_

_Mycroft? JW_

_No, Pol Pot. SH_

_..._

_..._

_Sherlock? JW_

_? SH_

_I thought you said he wasn't in NYC. JW_

_He is. SH_

_Do you want an excuse to get out of your meeting? JW _

Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft looked at him sharply.

"What does John have to say now?" he asked.

_Tell him you have to come stop me or I'll buy more Aran jumpers. JW_

_I'm at some store called J Crew. It's all they have. JW_

_Or pajamas with embroidered doggies? JW_

_Fairisle vest? JW_

_Since when do you know so much about knitwear? SH_

_Nanny Watson. JW_

_Figures. SH_

"John needs my assistance," Sherlock announced. "I think you can handle things from here on out, don't you?"

_Where are you? SH_

_Rockefeller Center. Nice tree BTW. JW_

_Tree? SH_

_I'm not going to explain this to you. JW_

_On my way. SH_

"I know you're running away, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You run away from John to come here, you run away from me to go to him. But you can't run away forever."

"Thank you for those pithy words of wisdom," Sherlock said. "But I'm afraid that I really must be going. Oh, and by the by-" he paused. "Speaking of running away. The Ambassador's dog. You really should take her to the dog run near the east side of the Great Lawn if you're going to let her run loose." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You walked her this morning," Sherlock said. "And you thought you could let her off the leash. Unfortunately, a greyhound is a greyhound, no matter how small. Born to run. Hence, your late arrival at the lunch meeting, and the grass stains on your trousers."

"Well done, Sherlock. I feel _so_ exposed, I can practically sense the wind blowing up my -"

"Shut it, Mycroft. I'll see you - when? Friday?"

"Last chance to save the world before the holiday weekend," Mycroft said. "And do be punctual next time. I hate having to explain that you're late because you and your boyfriend got into a tiff over a sculpture."

"It was an etching, Mycroft. An _etching._"

* * *

><p>Author's Note: So, apparently Goya's S<em>ueño<em> is not on exhibition right now at the Met, but as it is part of their permanent collection, and as it's a bit of a favourite of mine, I thought I'd bring it out of the basement for the Baker Street Boys to ponder over.

Lastew - _Mil gracias. _

~Emma


	6. Pax V

Author's Note: I was waiting to post all day but was travelling and didn't have access to Internet. Now I've reached my destination and am happy to get this out into the world!

Thanks for all of your comments so far, and for those who are following, rest assured that I'm going to post again tomorrow! I realize that I might not have them at Christmas day by the time those of us in the real world get there, but I'm going to do my best to keep posting till the new year (and the new series). So stay tuned!

Lastew was my beta and I have to say, it's much more fun to have help to plan out a longer story like this one! Thank you so much, L.

Any typos, Americanisms, etc., are my own.

~Emma

* * *

><p>Pax V<p>

Sherlock stared up at what had to be the largest, brightest Christmas tree he had ever seen.

"This is atrocious," he said. "Whose idea was this?"

John laughed. "Obviously, whoever thought it up didn't go to Eton," he joked. "It's a New York tradition. They say it's quite the honour if your state gets to donate the tree. This one is from Pennsylvania."

They were in the plaza at Rockefeller Center. It hadn't taken Sherlock long to walk there from the U.N., but it was difficult to find John amongst all of the people. The lights hurt his eyes and he thought he might be allergic to balsam.

"Some honour," Sherlock huffed. "And look at all these _people_." There were crowds of Christmas shoppers, school children, and even – in a small rink – ice skaters.

"Looks like they're getting into the Christmas spirit," John said, holding out a cup of coffee for Sherlock. "Unlike someone I know." Sherlock took the cup and sipped from it, looking out at the scene in front of them. It was the longest day of the year and the sun had already set; the Christmas lights were brilliant in the dark plaza.

"This is the perfect place for a bomb attack, John. There's no way the police would be able to clear the area in time. The crowds wouldn't fit through those alleyways." He pointed to a narrow passageway between two buildings. "Look – if a person put a bomb right…" he scanned the scene and waved his hand towards the old Time-Life Building. "…there! See? It would blow away those two buildings and crush everyone in sight."

"Lovely thought," John said. "Would you like a piece of gingerbread?" He held out a white paper bag and opened it so that Sherlock could see the army of gingerbread men inside.

"Ha! Perfect." Sherlock laughed. "Where did you get these?"

"I was down at a place called Union Square," John said. "They had an outdoor market set up and were selling them."

"Give me a few, John." John complied, with a puzzled look on his face. Sherlock headed for an open corner in the plaza, John trailing behind him. The detective pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and began to sketch out lines on the ground.

"Here we are," he explained, pointing. "This is Rockefeller Center. There's 50th St. here, 49th—" He drew out two long parallel lines and then crossed them perpendicularly with two more. "And here is 6th Avenue and 5th Avenue. We're _here_." He dropped two gingerbread men in the middle of the map. "And down here…." He drew another set of lines below the ones he had already done. "….is Grand Central Station." He worked quickly and sketched out a rough plan of the area around Rockefeller Center, naming landmarks as he went. "Across is the New York Public Library – pity to lose that – and here we have Bryant Park. More ice skaters, John. Give me another biscuit. Now, look here. If we go west one long block – do you know what is here?" He dropped another pair of gingerbread men on 42nd Street, between 6th and 7th Avenues."

"Um, Times Square?" John asked hesitantly.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said. "Now, imagine that someone puts bomb here, here, and here." He pointed to where the gingerbread men lay scattered, each one marking a key location. Sherlock brought his well-heeled foot down sharply on one of the gingerbread men. "Rockefeller Center!" he shouted. A few children and their mother turned to stare at him. Sherlock continued, grinding the biscuit into the pavement. "Grand Central!" he cried, jumping on another gingerbread soldier. The children came closer, mouths agape. "And finally – do you know what this one is, kids?" He turned towards them with a wicked grin.

"Matilda! Michael! Come away from that man," their mother said.

"Times Square!" Sherlock said, triumphantly. He made a fist and practically jumped with glee.

"I see," John said. "Are you going to do that with all of the biscuits? Or can I have one?"

Sherlock straightened up and brushed a few gingerbread crumbs off of his coat. "Of course not. These are all the important sites, anyway. Hey!" He called out to the family that was still watching them. "Would you like a gingerbread man?"

"Don't touched the cookies!" the woman said. "They might be poisoned!" She ushered her children away and John laughed.

"You're terrorizing those people," John said.

"What?_ Me?_ I'm _saving_ them from terrorists!"

"That's not what it looks like to me." John grabbed the bag from Sherlock and took out a gingerbread man. He examined it carefully, turning it over in his hands. "I think this one resembles Moriarty, don't you?" He bit off the gingerbread head. "Problem solved!" He chewed with satisfaction, then held out another biscuit to Sherlock. "This one is named Mycroft," he said.

Sherlock shoved as much of the gingerbread man as he could into his ample mouth. The feet didn't quite fit in, making John laugh.

"If that's the way I can get you to eat, Sherlock, then I'll make sure that everything we eat looks like your brother."

Sherlock, with his mouth full, said, "Don't be ridiculous, John. They don't sell gingerbread men all year round. And besides, I ate dinner last night, didn't I?"

"You did. Care to try again tonight?" John's breath caught in his throat when Sherlock looked at him carefully. Even with crumbs around his mouth, he was still a very attractive man. "Sherlock– you have something – there – " John reached up and brushed the gingerbread from Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock coloured slightly. "Thank you, John," he said formally.

"Well, I can't have you looking like you just devoured an army of gingerbread men," John said. "Though that's actually not far from the truth. I think you're traumatized those children with all that stomping."

"I was just making a point," Sherlock said.

"What point? That New York is vulnerable to a bomb attack? I don't think anyone living here is oblivious to that fact."

They began to walk west, John following Sherlock's lead.

"Where are we going now?" John asked.

"K-Town."

"Thanks, that's very helpful. Is that another potential target?"

"Not likely. Unless the terrorists are Kim Jong-Il's minions or something."

"You do know that he just died, don't you, Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded. "Do you think there's a Korean connection here?"

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head and pulling his scarf more tightly around his neck. The air was colder now that the sun had set. John shivered and, almost without being conscious that he was doing so, pulled closer to Sherlock. The sidewalks were crowded with people, and Sherlock, more than once, put his hand on John's shoulder to steer him around a baby stroller or wheelchair. It didn't take them long to arrive at K-Town, the Korean neighbourhood in Midtown Manhattan. Neon lights advertised barbeque, beer, and karaoke.

"Right," John said. "K-Town. I get it. And K-TV, too?"

"I thought you didn't go in for musical theatre, John."

"Just because I don't like _The Phantom of the Opera_ doesn't mean that I hate singing."

"So, dinner, then karaoke?"

"Karaoke's not much fun with just two of us, Sherlock."

"Why not? I think we usually manage well enough on our own." He grinned.

"Karaoke isn't crime-solving, Sherlock. You need more than two people to have a good time. That, and a _lot_ of beer. Tell me, who else do you know in New York besides Mycroft and the ambassador?"

"Dominican thugs," Sherlock said. John whistled under his breath.

"Let's stick to activities for two, then," John said. "Barbeque and beer sound like excellent choices."

"There's something very important I need to know, then," Sherlock said.

"What's that?"

"How much heat can you take?"

* * *

><p>They lingered over their meal for several hours, slowly transforming plate after plate of raw meat into edible morsels over the coals of their table-side brazier. Sherlock showed John how to wrap the cooked meat in large leaves of lettuce, adding raw chillies and sesame sauce to this improvised taco. John had never eaten Korean food before, and he was captivated by the pickles and other small plates that the waiters brought out with every course. There was a piquant freshness to everything, an intensity of flavour that reminded him of some of the dishes he had tried in Afghanistan. Outside of England, food just tasted <em>better<em>, somehow, as if the boring pub fare dulled his appetite in London.

"So, I asked you before," Sherlock began. "How much heat can you take?"

John looked at him blankly. "This food is quite good. It's spicy but not too spicy."

"Have you tried a chile yet?" Sherlock picked up a green sliver and waved it in front of John's face before popping it into his own mouth.

"Sherlock!" John cried, wincing.

Sherlock swallowed, then smiled. "It's quite mild, this one. But here's another plate -" He stretched his arm to select two red chiles, handing one to John. "Try this one," he prodded.

Simultaneously, they put the red chiles into their mouths. Sherlock chewed slowly and steadily, as if he were relishing the flavour on his tongue. John, on the other hand, swallowed it in one gulp and promptly began to sneeze. He reached for his water and chugged it down frantically.

"What the hell was _that_, Sherlock?"

"A Scotch Bonnet pepper."

"Fuck," John said. "I'm impressed." He waved to the waiter. "More water, please!"

Sherlock took another chile and chewed on it absently, watching John's face turn red. Sweat had begun to gather at the doctor's temples and he looked agitated.

"I asked you if you could take the heat," Sherlock said, reaching out to hold John's wrist to take his pulse. "100 bpm. Interesting. What's your normal heart rate?"

"Get your hands off of me, you wanker. I'm not some kind of experiment on vasoconstriction," John spat out. "Bring me some milk – ice cream – anything dairy!"

"Waiter," Sherlock said, "may we have a bowl of ice cream?" The waiter shook his head, explaining that they didn't serve dessert.

"Go get something, Sherlock." John ordered. "NOW!" The tone in his voice brokered no refusal. Sherlock stood and walked quickly out of the restaurant. He returned in less than five minutes with a small cone of soft-serve ice cream.

"Here," he said, holding it out to John. John took the cone eagerly, licking at the side where the ice cream was beginning to melt. Sherlock sat down and watched him carefully. John's face began to return to its normal shade and he didn't protest when Sherlock took his wrist again.

"90 bpm," he announced. "Going down." John glared at him but didn't pull his hand away. It was strangely soothing, the feel of Sherlock's touch on his wrist. Even after Sherlock had finished counting, he kept his fingers wrapped around John's pulse point, rubbing circles over the edge of his ulna. He pressed tightly again, taking the pulse again. "85. That must be closer to normal." John nodded. Sherlock still didn't remove his fingers. John's mouth was tingling in the aftershocks of the chile, but he was now aware of another sensation – the feel of Sherlock's breath across his cheek, as the other man leaned across his lap and stole a mouthful of ice cream. John's eyes widened as Sherlock's tongue licked at the cone, making quick gestures like a cat lapping up a bowl of cream.

Sherlock continue to rub his fingers over John's wrist as he pulled back to take his friend's pulse again. Sherlock's hip was snug against John's side and he _still wouldn't let go – why won't he let go?_ _God, Sherlock, do that thing with your tongue and the ice cream again. Stay right here, _John willed him.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. "Your pulse is going up again." John felt the urge to say something sarcastic, but the look in Sherlock's face was guarded and John didn't know what to make of his friend's behaviour.

"Are you feeling better, John?" Sherlock asked, examining him intently. _Is it all right that I'm touching you like this, John? Or are you going to jump up and run away? I think you might. You have that look in your eyes like **T**__**his is not good, Sherlock. Not good at all. **__Why not, John? Why can't I sit here next to you like that? Don't tell me you don't like it. I see your dilated pupils, your heart-rate just went up to 100, and you've shifted your legs so I can't see what's happening under the table. But now you're frowning, John. Why are you frowning? Don't frown, John. I'll move away, like this, drop your wrist, let you go. Better now? There's seven inches between us. I can't feel your body anymore. _

"Sherlock," John said breathily. "What are you doing?"

"I was trying to make you feel better. Did the ice cream help?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Thank you."

"I'm sorry I gave you the chile, John," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't know it would have that effect on you."

_Sherlock, you don't need to give me a spicy pepper to have an effect on me, _John thought ruefully. _I'll pretty much get hot and bothered no matter what you do. Even if you're examining a corpse and fighting with Anderson over who has the right to touch the evidence, you somehow make it sexy. _He wrinkled his brow. _Not good, John. This is so __**not good.**_

"John?" Sherlock asked in a worried tone. "Shall we go back to the Hudson?"

"I think I'm OK now. But, um, yeah. Let's go."

* * *

><p>There were no gifts, unwanted or otherwise, waiting for them that night. John, befuddled and aroused by Sherlock's actions in the restaurant, dropped into a restless sleep.<p>

Sherlock stayed up a while longer, pacing the living room and stepping out to the terrace from time to time for a smoke. He had not slept for three nights, and though he often went as long without sleep when he had an exciting case to solve, the truth was that the U.N. consulting gig was one of tamest cases he had worked on in a while. Not that he was complaining - he was far from bored, what with John's company and his growing anxiety over their strange relationship.

Sherlock had thought that it would be easy to tell John what he wanted, but he was finding that John was surprisingly impervious to his hints. _I practically sat on his lap in the restaurant and he didn't say a thing. But I know he liked it. So why didn't he respond to me? Am I missing something here? Need more information. _He might be attracted to me, but he's still looking for another flatshare. Unacceptable. At the end of the day, sexual attraction means very little. It's not proof of any deeper affection - it's just proof that John is a very, very sexual male. Which makes it all that much harder to be sure about how he feels about **me**. _ _

Sherlock listened to see if there were any noises coming from the bedroom. _John's asleep now. Why can't I sleep? I wish I hadn't agreed to sleep on the sofa. I should have made up something about my back giving me problems. No, that wouldn't have worked; John's a doctor. But my back **is** sore. And my chest is tight. It wouldn't be a lie. Should I go in and ask him what I should do about it? No, no, no. John won't like it if I wake him up. Go smoke a cigarette. That will make it easier to think. Clear the mind. _Sherlock templed his fingers under his chin and continued to pace around the room, looking for his matches.

"Sherlock?"

John blinked his eyes as he came out of the bedroom.

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock said flatly. "I was just about to go smoke. Care to join me?"

"I don't smoke and you shouldn't either, Sherlock. Didn't you bring any patches?" John asked.

"The nicotinergic receptors respond more quickly to pulmonary delivery."

John sighed. There was no point in reminding Sherlock that he knew these things, too. "I got up to get a glass of water," he said by way of explanation. "I thought you would have gone to bed by now. How many days has it been since you slept?"

"Four," Sherlock said. "And, of course I haven't gone to _bed_ by now."

"Is there a problem with the sofa?" John inquired.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked. _Of course there's a bloody problem, John. You're in there and I'm out here. Do you think I **like** being exiled to the living room? Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say that I'm being "sexiled.' No sex for me. No sex for you. Now we're both happy, right? **Wrong!** _

"Yes, problem, Sherlock. Are you uncomfortable out here?"

Sherlock plopped down heavily in a chair. _What should I say? If I say something now, and ask to sleep in the bed, he'll know something's up. And what's wrong with that, Sherlock? We've been through this before: you **need** to tell John sometime. Why not now? He has that sleepy face on and he's slightly muddle-headed and probably a bit aroused, he seems like the kind of person who would get the urge in the middle of the night...And why else would he come out here, anyway, if it wasn't because he felt something, too?_

"Just going over some case details in my head," he lied.

"You still haven't told me much about the case," John pointed out. "I'm beginning to think you didn't really need me here."

_This is the opportunity, Sherlock! _The detective urged himself. _Tell him you need him. Tell him you want him. Tell him you -_

"Sherlock?" John prodded. "You have seemed very distracted today. Is there something on your mind? Something I can help with? Has Mycroft been a bother?"

Sherlock frowned. "Not Mycroft," he said. "It's nothing, John. Really. I just need some time - time to think. Go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

"Are you still upset about me looking at flats?" John asked. "Because we probably need to have that conversation. Though I'd rather not start it at three in the morning." He smiled brightly, now more fully awake. Sherlock looked wretched; he clearly had been mulling over something that had discomfited him. But he shook his head in answer to John's question. He could not speak; he knew that if he spoke, he wouldn't be able to hold anything back.

Once the floodgates were open, he would tell John that he had made a terrible mistake, that there had not been a week since Wales when he did not regret what he had told him. It was a lie, saying that he didn't do relationships; just because he _hadn't_ done relationships before didn't mean that he was forever barred from them. So why had he brushed John off, when John was already the most important relationship of his life? Sherlock knew that, once he began to speak, he would say all of this. _What was it exactly that John had said in Wales?_ Sherlock wondered. _He said that he thought that we might try being something more than friends. It all went by so quickly, that conversation, and I panicked, and said all the wrong things, I see that now. Hindsight and all that, Mycroft did always warn me about acting precipitously. And it was all a rush, his hurt face and those sad eyes, I can scarcely remember what he said in return, and __before I knew it he was on a train back to London, and I thought he'd had left Baker Street when I got back, but there he was, just as if nothing had happened, but something **did** happen, and it was my fault, and now he's here and once I start to say this I won't be able to shut up, and then he'll run away again, but this time because I'm saying too much. Mother always said that I couldn't regulate my emotions, that I was like a faucet that had two settings: on and off. I've been off for so long and now I'm going to burst, yes, I'm really going to burst if I keep this in much longer. And then it will ruin everything._

He knew that once he began to speak, there would be no escape for John. He would tell him everything: how he longed for him, how John was _always in his mind_ _and could not be turned off. _He would show all of the terrible, possessive side of himself to John, the monstrous jealousy that had driven away childhood pals and uni classmates and erstwhile lovers, the jealousy that had sprung up again when John had come to live at Baker Street two years ago but had not yet corroded their bond (though everyone else seemed to think it would, sooner or later, and had warned John off). Sherlock couldn't bear to think that he might drive John away, because the possibility of John leaving was worse than almost anything else that he could think of, and he certainly had a library of horrific events on which to draw for comparison. Nor could he stand to think that he might ruin John Watson, that wonderful, tender, warm-hearted person, with his jealousy and his all-consuming need to _have_ him. He would rather give John up than destroy him and that, for Sherlock, was proof that he had finally learned to love someone.

_But no one ever told me that love would be like **this**, _Sherlock thought. _This ghastly possession, this longing, this impossibility. _

John came over to where Sherlock was seated, standing above him in a reversal of their usual positions. "I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong, Sherlock," he said softly, his hands crossed in front of his chest.

"I can't," Sherlock said. "I just _can't_. Please. Understand me, John. If there's anyone who deserves to know about this, it's you. But I just can't talk about it right now. Not tonight."

"Well." John frowned. "If it's too upsetting to talk about, maybe you can just sit next to me on the couch for a while? I won't make you talk, but sometimes it's nice to just have some company when you're going through a rough patch." He tugged on Sherlock's hands, urging him out of the chair and pulling him across the room to the sofa. They sat side by side. John looked down at their hands, still wrapped together, and sighed. Sherlock was so hot and cold - it was maddening. Just a few hours ago, at the restaurant, Sherlock had insinuated himself around John's body, treating him in a way that no _ordinary_ flatmate would treat him - _not that Sherlock was ever ordinary,_ John thought. _But now he's definitely behaving strangely. Poor fellow. Must be all of this Christmas nonsense, and the consulting case, and Mycroft. And he really should have let us get a room with two beds. I don't know why he's being so stubborn about that. It's obvious that he's run himself ragged and just needs a solid night's rest._

"John?" Sherlock said, leaning his head back against the cushions of the sofa, refusing to look at his friend's face or at their joined fingers. His breathing was irregular and John wondered idly if he had ever seen Sherlock hyperventilate and, if so, what the detective looked like in a panic attack.

"Just breathe deeply," he instructed him. "Bring your knees up to your chest, like _that_." He lifted Sherlock's legs up and tucked his arms around his knees, so that Sherlock was hugging himself. "Now, put your head down into the crook of your arm," he instructed, "and keep breathing." John rubbed soft circles over Sherlock's back, feeling each vertebra through the thin fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown, trying to calm him down.

Once Sherlock's breathing had settled back to normal, John allowed him to lift his head. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and examined him carefully, noticing again how tired Sherlock looked. "I think we should get you to bed," John said carefully. "In the _bed_, I mean. I'll kip out here. You need a good night's sleep if you're going to make it to Christmas." He stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist as he led him to the bedroom. Sherlock leaned on John as they walked, surprised at the depth of his own fatigue.

John rolled back the covers and gestured for Sherlock to lie down. Sherlock's body went limp as he settled onto the bed, curling up on one side while John spread the eiderdown over him. "Now, _sleep_," John said in a commanding voice. He was walking to the door when Sherlock spoke.

"I don't mind, John - if you don't mind - sharing the bed?" His voice was drowsy, and John was tempted to ignore him and return to the living room. But something in the fragility of his flatmate's figure, prostrate on the bed, reminded John of a unconsolable child.

"I don't mind, Sherlock," John said, turning back.

They each kept to their own sides, leaving a chaste stretch of bed between them. John fell asleep first and Sherlock quickly joined him, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of John's breaths.

It was past midday before the residents of the penthouse suite called for breakfast.


	7. Pax VI

Pax VI

John did not see much of Sherlock for the next couple of days. After they rolled out of bed and ate their late breakfast, Sherlock headed out for another meeting with Mycroft and the Ambassador.

John was no closer to knowing what kind of work Sherlock was doing, but he worried that the Moriarty connection was what had made Sherlock so anxious the night they had eaten in K-Town. Since then, Sherlock had avoided talking to John about the case – in fact, it looked like he was avoiding John altogether. They continued to share the one large bed, but apart from a few minutes before they went to sleep, John didn't see much of Sherlock.

On December 23, John spent the day prowling Manhattan on foot. He had already seen much of Greenwich Village, which contrary to its bohemian reputation was now one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city, filled with upscale boutiques and flagship stores of major brands. But he liked the cobblestone streets, the old brick townhouses, and the few scattered Italian markets that remained despite gentrification. He stopped for a cappuccino at Rocco's bakery, then walked up Seventh Avenue, through the neighborhood called Chelsea, where new condos had replaced many of the older tenements.

Seventh Avenue was lined with sex shops and bars that catered to the neighborhood's vibrant gay community. John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock would have made of Chelsea. Would he, like John, resent being placed in a category, being automatically assigned to a community, a neighborhood, because of the way he loved? John did occasionally go to gay bars in London, but he liked women, too, and it was always a bit strange to him to find so many of the other men in those places acting in an identical assertive, hypersexual, and flamboyant style, as if they were all graduates of the same finishing school. He couldn't quite describe what it was that he didn't like about it, except that a lot of it seemed like an act to him, one that didn't interest him. He had seen male friends come out of the closet, only to entirely change their manner of dressing, speaking, and socializing within a few short months, in order to blend in with gay London. John wasn't the kind of person to modify his behaviour based on the kind of partner he was looking for; he'd always been the same person, no matter whom he was with. To act other than his self – the unpretentious, sturdy, reliable doctor – was distasteful to him, and not worth the effort. Either the other person would like that John, or they wouldn't, and he wasn't interested in being with someone who expected him to act in a certain way.

John supposed that one reason he had always got along so well with Sherlock was because Sherlock did not ask him to be anyone other than who he was. To be sure, Sherlock would have liked John to be a tad more intelligent, and a better dresser to boot, but at the heart of things, Sherlock accepted him as he was. It ashamed John to realize that he was not nearly as tolerant of Sherlock as Sherlock was of him; he loved Sherlock, but he also wanted him to change. _Is loving him my way of asking him to change?_ John asked himself. _Love __**is**__ a demand, after all – the demand to put aside one's own egotism in order to serve as the other's witness. And maybe that demand is too much for Sherlock – he is a genius, after all, and he's used to being so far above everyone else in intelligence that the concept of finding a match in another person must seem farfetched to him. And who am I, exactly, to want to be his partner? I may be a doctor, I may have served in the army, but at the end of the day I'm a pretty ordinary individual. Sherlock is spectacular. But he doesn't know how to love. And I don't know if I can keep living with him, loving him the way I do, with no prospect of change. _

Thinking these thoughts, John was surprised when his phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock.

_Where are you? SH_

_Chelsea. 7th Ave & w 18th st. Where are you? JW_

_Newark Airport, NJ. Waiting for suspect to pass through security. SH_

_Then what? JW_

_Late night, be back late. Gug tmrw? SH_

_Gug? JW_

_Guggenheim. Kandinsky, remember? SH_

_Address? JW_

_5th Ave. & E. 89th. SH_

_It's Christmas Eve tmrw. JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Do you want to do something to celebrate? JW_

_Lessons and Carols, St. John's Cathedral, 4pm. SH_

_When should we meet for museum?_

_Lobby of Gug, noon. See you then. SH_

* * *

><p>December 24, 2011<p>

When John rose the next morning, there was no sign of Sherlock in the suite, and John did not remember him crawling into bed the night before. He checked his phone for messages.

_Go pick up your suit. SH_

_Is it ready? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Where were you last night? JW_

_Hotel in Jersey. SH_

_Back now? JW_

_At U.N. Go get suit, See you at noon at museum. SH_

_Later. JW_

* * *

><p>"Did you pick up the suit?"<p>

"Hello to you, too, Sherlock. Nice to see you and all that."

"Hello, John. Did you pick up the suit?"

"Yes, I did. Dropped it back at the hotel. Why?" They waited together in line for entrance tickets.

"Michael Andrews is closed tomorrow, and tomorrow we're going to dinner at the U.N. The annual Christmas ball. Thought you might like to have something to wear for the occasion."

"Thanks."

"How did it fit?"

"The suit? Oh, fine," John said. The truth was, he thought he had never looked so resplendent. Those tailors really did know how to dress a man! But John was annoyed with Sherlock for having disappeared without telling him where he was going, and he didn't want to admit that he had rather enjoyed the whole experience at the tailor's that morning. The staff had fawned over him, making him try on dress shirt after dress shirt, trading in various brilliantly coloured ties until John's head couldn't keep track of all of the combinations. And then, decisively, they chose the shirts and ties for him, assuring him that a certain colour blue in the tie would match the shade in his eyes. They refused to let him tip them, insisting that everything had been paid for already. It was the most extravagant gift that John had ever received, and he didn't know how to reconcile the thoughtfulness and cost of the gift with Sherlock's recent neglect of his company.

Once they bought their tickets, Sherlock led John across the atrium. "It's better to start at the top and work our ways downwards," he explained. "That way it's not so tiring as it would be if we started at the bottom." John looked upwards, at the interior of the great white seashell that was the Guggenheim. The balconies spiralled above him and he could see a few children peering over an edge and waving at him. He waved back before following Sherlock into the elevator.

John felt slightly dizzy as they made their way down the sloping floors of the galleries; it was as if he were walking on a ship, not on the solid ground of a museum gallery. But he enjoyed the exhibition, taking his time with each painting before moving on. Sherlock, it seemed, had a shorter attention span, and had gone striding ahead. John could see him across the open atrium, a tall figure in a long dark coat. He watched his friend descend a level, then come to the railing and peer up and down. He wondered what Sherlock was doing, if he was looking for anything in particular or just examining the construction of the building. Knowing Sherlock, he probably found the architecture just as interesting as the exhibit.

John caught Sherlock's eyes as he turned around to come walk back up. In a few minutes, Sherlock was at his side again, watching John intently as John looked at another painting.

"Why are you leaving, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. John looked at him, a bit shocked.

"Do you really want to talk about that now?" John asked.

"You keep telling me that we'll talk about it later, but every time it comes up, you say it's the wrong time."

John sighed. "I suppose right now is as good as any other time. What do you want to know?"

"I just don't understand, John," Sherlock began. "You said that you like living with me, that we have fun together – and I know that the rent is a good deal, for that part of London, you can't deny that it would be hard to find a better arrangement – so I can't figure out why you'd want to leave." Sherlock tugged nervously at the knot in his scarf.

"Do you really have to ask me, Sherlock?" John raised his voice. "You can't figure it out by yourself?"

"My powers of deduction have their limits, John," Sherlock said humbly. "Besides, I think you've told me before that it's more respectful to _ask_ someone, rather than to deduce everything out of them."

"True." John grew silent, looking at the ground before raising his eyes to look at Sherlock.

"I _do_ like living with you, Sherlock. You're right about that."

"Go on," Sherlock prodded, his eyes fixed on John.

"Remember what I told you in Wales?"

Sherlock looked confused for an instant. "Yes, I remember. What about it?"

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I like you too much to keep living with you."

"But that doesn't make any sense. I thought you'd stay _because_ you like me."

"No, you git, that's exactly why I'm _not_ going to stay." John raised his voice. "You know that I fancy you – quite a lot, actually, if you must know everything about me – and it's bloody awkward living with you, Sherlock, when you don't feel the same way!"

"How do you know that I don't feel the same?" Sherlock asked, his voice also heated.

"Because you already told me you weren't interested. First, that night at Angelo's when you said that you were married to your work. Then, in Wales, when you told me that you 'don't do relationships'."

"That doesn't mean that I can't change my mind, John."

"Don't give me that horseshit, Sherlock. I saw your face when you opened Mycroft's card the other night. The idea of a relationship with me disgusts you."

"You really think that I find you _disgusting_?" Sherlock asked. "John – you're so mistaken!"

"Am I? Then why didn't you say something to me _before _now? Before I decided to leave?"

"Because I—" Sherlock began.

"How do I know this isn't just some giant ploy to get me to stick around Baker Street longer? Pretend that you care about me so I won't leave you? The timing seems awfully convenient to me." John raised his voice even louder, and now all of the people near them in the gallery were staring at them.

"I thought you knew me better than that, John," Sherlock said, just as loudly. "I may be a sociopath but—"

John interrupted him. "_YOU ARE NOT A SOCIOPATH!_" Now, people several floors below came over to the balcony and looked upwards, trying to find the source of the shouting voice. John continued, somewhat more softly, "Stop saying that about yourself, Sherlock. There's no way you are a sociopath. You don't understand emotions well enough to manipulate other people like a sociopath does. You're just – so frustrating! There is so much potential in you, Sherlock, if you could ever let someone love you."

"I think I could let _you_ love me, John. I'm sure I could," Sherlock says, almost desperately. "I could _learn_ to do a relationship with you. You know I could. I just need to learn how it's done."

"Yes, I'm sure you have the intelligence for it, but love doesn't work like that, Sherlock. You can't just learn the steps to a relationship and expect it to all work out."

"But if you _showed_ me, John. If you _showed _me how, I am sure that I could learn."

"Forget it, Sherlock. Don't even go there. You're deluding yourself if you think that you can _learn_ how to love."

"Well, how does anyone do anything for the first time, John?" Sherlock spat at him. "You learn. I know I'm a genius, but that doesn't mean that I know how to do everything without any practice. And besides," he took a deep breath, "I already know how to love you, John. It's the relationship part that I'm having trouble with."

John shook his head. "You can't expect me to believe that, just when I'm about to leave Baker Street, when I've already embarrassed myself twice by making a move on you – you can't tell me _now _that you love me and just expect me to believe it."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, blinking.

"You'll have to _show_ me, Sherlock. You'll have to show me that you're serious about this, that you aren't just saying those things because you want me to stay at Baker Street."

"And how do I do _that_?" Sherlock asked, with a hint of desperation his voice.

"I can't tell you, Sherlock. The genius will just have to figure out for himself."

A woman's voice interrupted: "Ah, give him a break!" An older woman, one of the other museum goers, looked directly at John. "The guy's obviously crazy about you. And it's almost Christmas. Get into the spirit!"

Both Sherlock and John looked sceptically at her. Was she actually _serious_? "Get into the spirit"? Who _said_ that kind of thing?

"Err," John began. "Thank you for that advice, but—" he looked at his watch; it was getting late. "It really is time that we should be going. Come on, Sherlock." John began to walk rapidly down the galleries, with Sherlock in close pursuit. Strangers stared at them as John broke into a light trot, dodging groups of families and museum guards. Sherlock reached the bottom a few seconds after John did, but John dashed across the atrium and out of the exit before Sherlock had a moment to orient himself.

When Sherlock met John outside a few minutes later, he had already received a lecture from two museum guards about the inappropriateness of their behaviour – "No running in the museum, etc., etc." – and had apologized in the poshest voice he had, which seemed to calm them down.

"What was _that_ about, John?" Sherlock asked. "Did you just run away from me?"

"Ha!" John said, catching his breath. "I guess I did. But it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Very," Sherlock said. "Now, we have some time before the service. Why don't we walk across the park? The Cathedral is on the west side, near Columbia University. We might even have time to walk through the campus, which you might like."

John assented and they made their way across Central Park, strolling along the reservoir and up the bridle path until they came to West 110th St. The Episcopal cathedral was not far away.

The sun was just setting as John and Sherlock entered the cathedral. The western light streamed through the rose windows and illuminated the building's enormous nave. Sherlock dropped a few dollars into the collection box before leading John down the long aisle to the choral stalls.

"We can sit here?" John asked. "Isn't this where the choir sits?"

"They sit on the other side," Sherlock explained. "But these are the best seats in the house. And if you look up…" he pointed, "you can watch the organist at work."

"I feel as if we were in Cambridge," John said.

"They don't call it the Church of England here, of course, but it's as close to the real thing as you can get in the land of Puritans. They haven't done away with the pomp and circumstance here, not by a long shot."

The Service of Lessons and Carols was familiar to both of them, but the accents of the readers, and the diverse faces of the crowd, were different than what they would find in England, and thus the entire service had something of the uncanny about it. It was familiar, and yet strange – but stirring and elegant, nonetheless. The choir was really quite good, John noticed, and Sherlock was right, it _was_ fun to watch the organist run his hands over his two-storey keyboard.

When the worshippers filed out of the church at the service's close, Sherlock suggested that they grab a bite to eat at a Hungarian pastry shop nearby.

The streets were dark and cold, but the shop cozy. They both ordered coffee and hamentashen, small triangle pastries filled with fig preserves. Sherlock explained that they were a Jewish food, commonly eaten during Purim, the day of atonement.

They said little to each other, both pensive and withdrawn after the worship service. But when they left the pastry shop, they began a round of light banter again, Sherlock telling John about his time in the Newark Airport, and John recounting his explorations of the city in Sherlock's city. They stopped at an intersection, preparing to cross, when John looked at noticed that Sherlock, once again, had managed to leave a few pastry crumbs around his mouth.

"I guess I need to feed you more often," John joked, reaching up to brush away the crumbsfrom Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock caught his hand and held it, examining it closely but not letting it go. "Seems like you need practice using a napkin," John joked nervously. Sherlock smiled.

"Is that an invitation to dinner?" he asked slyly. Sherlock continued to look at John's hand, absorbed in its contemplation.

John's breath caught in his throat from Sherlock's light touch. "What can you deduce about me?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound light.

"Your hand was trembling," Sherlock said.

"Yes, sometimes the tremor comes back," John said.

"I said _trembling_, not a tremor, John. This isn't related to your PTSD. At least, I hope not." Sherlock reached down to grab John's hand again. John moved to pull it away but Sherlock held it fast, turning it over to trace the heartline on John's palm. John shivered slightly, despite himself.

"Are you reading my fortune, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his hand and then looked up at John. "Yes," he said, smilingly. "I predict that tonight, you are going to eat Chinese food. And then you'll go home with someone tall, dark, and handsome."

_I wish he wouldn't say those things if he doesn't mean them, _John thought. _It makes it even harder for me. Sherlock, you're __**killing **__me here. _But John played along.

"Do I know this person?"

"You do," Sherlock said.

"Have we gone home together before, then?"

"Many times. In fact, almost every night." Sherlock caressed John's hands, sliding his fingers next to his so that their hands were interlocking. John rubbed his thumb across Sherlock's knuckles in return. He didn't know where his flatmate was going with this, but he was very curious to find out what it would lead to.

"So what makes tonight so different?"

"That," Sherlock said slowly, deeply, "depends entirely on you."

"_Entirely_ on me?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock but hardly daring to stare him in the eye. Sherlock had no such compunctions; his gaze was firmly locked on John.

"Not entirely," Sherlock whispered. He bent his face towards John, and before John could turn away with the intensity of it all, Sherlock kissed him. Sherlock's lips were soft and surprisingly warm, given the cold winter air. He kissed John gently, just pressing their mouths together, waiting for John to respond.

John pulled back and looked at him. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked, shakily.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock leaned forward, seeking John's face with his lips. "I'm kissing you." John turned away quickly and Sherlock's mouth met his temple instead, which, given how John felt about his ears being nibbled, was enough to make John gasp out loud.

"You might ask me first," John said, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's and twisting away. He couldn't explain why he felt so angry, and so aroused, all at once.

Perhaps it was because this was what he had always wanted, but it wasn't the way he wanted it. He wanted Sherlock, but not as a kind of game, and not for just one night. And as far as he knew, Sherlock had never had a boyfriend, and John still couldn't believe that Sherlock had initiated the touching, and the kissing, and the hugging (for now Sherlock had come closer again, bringing John into his arms), because he was looking for anything resembling a _relationship_, and the idea that he was being manipulated made John feel ill. He tried to wriggle away but Sherlock was taller and surprisingly strong for such a slender man. He held John closely to him, whispering,

"Where else do you need to be right now?"

_Calm down, _John told himself. _**Think! **__Sherlock has had rough couple of days of it with Mycroft, he's upset that I'm leaving, and he probably just wants to get off, relieve some tension, and – __**oh!**__ That __**does **__feel good. _Sherlock was rubbing his fingers over John's neck and shoulders, massaging them even as he kept John pinned close to him. Despite his better judgment, John nestled his head into Sherlock's shoulder.

He had hugged Sherlock before, but this wasn't a wrestling match, this wasn't the end of a case, and this wasn't a drunken misstep that was going to get him into trouble. Sherlock was just standing there, as tranquil as John had ever seen him, his heart pressed tightly against John's, encircling John in his arms. And for a minute, or maybe longer, John let himself be held. He smelled Sherlock's scent, that unique odour of wool and peppermint and musky cologne. He felt Sherlock's fingers on his neck, playing with the ends of his hair before they moved up and teased his scalp. He pressed his body against Sherlock's and felt the warmth that gathered in the space where the two of them met.

John wanted to turn and run. He wanted to lift his face to Sherlock's to be kissed again. He wanted to say the words that could not be unsaid – the words he had not dared to say in Wales –he wanted –

"John." Sherlock's voice was deep and husky. "May I kiss you again?"

John had had enough of running away for the day. And Sherlock _was_ asking this time, as John had wanted. He let himself be kissed, _damn the consequences._ They kissed on the sidewalk until they both grew cold; they kissed through the catcalls and stares from onlookers; they kissed even as Sherlock's phone buzzed with a message from Mycroft. They kissed until John began to, just a little, suspend his disbelief that this was happening to _him_, that Sherlock was actually kissing him, and not only was he a good kisser, but John could tell that Sherlock was enjoying himself, very much, from the low sighs and jagged breaths he emitted from time to time. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulled the other man closer to him, as close as they could be with their thick coats and hats and scarves. It was close enough for now, John reflected. _There will be time for more later. _And so he leaned into Sherlock and into the miracle of this kiss, that had started out so gently and hesitantly, and now blossomed into an open, passionate meeting of lips and tongue and teeth. And, really, it was extraordinary, and so very, very _good._

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Whew! We got them to the first kiss at last! Please forgive any typos, mistakes, etc. I'm writing this very quickly and wanted to make sure that you got a Christmas Eve gift. Now, if you'd like to return the favor, reviews and comments would be greatly appreciated! And don't worry, there's still Christmas Day to come, and John's present to Sherlock, and more kisses and time together.<p>

Best,

Emma


	8. Pax VII

**Author's Note: Extra long chapter to get Sherlock and John to Christmas day at the same time as we do. Consider it another Christmas present for all of you!**

**Thanks for the comments and favorites, friends. It made me smile to think of people from all over the world reading this story and rooting for Sherlock and John to get things right in time for Christmas. And no, though the thought is hilarious, I'm not going to have a proposal on top of the Empire State Building! Despite living in NYC for six years, I have never visited that building and I have a feeling that Sherlock isn't the kind of traveller who would go in for that kind of tourist trap, either. The New York that they are visiting is the city that I live in; all of the places that I mention really exist (including the Hudson Hotel – thought it was a cute coincidence because 221B is also part of a Hudson Hotel – Mrs. Hudson's Hotel, of course). At the very end of the story I will list all of the places in the story, but for now, you can look up any of them online and find out more about them. It's one of the joys of placing them in a city that I know so well – the backdrop is so easy to create. **

**Here be warned: mature content to follow. If male/male action isn't your thing, please don't continue. This is where the rating goes up to M.**

**Enough chatter. Here's the story.**

* * *

><p>Pax VII<p>

"Was that alright?" Sherlock asked, when they finally broke apart from the kiss.

"Was that _alright_?" John repeated, his hands still around Sherlock's waist. He did not want to let go, not just yet. "A bit better than 'alright,' I would think." He leaned up and gave Sherlock another brief kiss on the lips, in thanks. Sherlock reached out and pulled him closer, reluctant to let John out of his arms. He couldn't resist kissing John again, the cold weather be damned. Sherlock was overjoyed; after days of tiptoeing around the matter, here they finally were, exploring intimacy through kisses and whispers and trembling hands.

Sherlock's kisses were luxurious, generous; he took his time to explore John's mouth, now running his tongue over John's, now sucking gently on John's bottom lip. It made John breathless to think that it wasn't just anyone who was kissing him, it was _Sherlock_ – and far from being the selfish lover that John had feared he might be, Sherlock demonstrated an eagerness and sincerity that nearly made John's knees buckle underneath him.

"Shall we keep walking?" Sherlock asked when he let John go for the second time. "It's not quite time for dinner – how about that stroll through Columbia?" John assented, and the men walked up Amsterdam Avenue, hand in hand.

The entrance to the university was marked by tall, wrought-iron gates. Just inside, a walkway led across the campus, bracketed by rows of bare cherry trees outlined in a thousand white lights. The university walk was surrounded by a brick plaza that was buttressed by the old King's College library to the north and the newer library to the south, both grand and stately buildings.

_It is all too perfect, _thought John:_ the cold air, the dark night, the silhouette of the trees._ _And then there's Sherlock, who can't seem to let go of my hand, and there he goes again, dragging me along after him. Ah! A bench in the shadows. I know where his mind is headed…_

Though they were not undergrads, they sat on that bench and kissed as enthusiastically as had any number of students before them.

_Do you like this, John?_ Sherlock thought, nibbling at the tip of John's tongue as he cupped the other man's face firmly in his hands. _I think you do. Oh, why didn't we do this before? Why was I such an idiot? John, you knew what this would be like, that's why you suggested it, and I was the one who didn't know a good thing when he saw it._

"John!" Sherlock said tenderly, breathlessly. They gazed into each other's eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"John! John John John. I can't stop saying your name. It's so _marvelous_, John. _You_ are marvelous, oh you – John!"

John's laugh was open and clear, the sound of happiness. He rubbed his nose against Sherlock's, Eskimo kisses for the cold.

"Do you like this, John?" Sherlock asked, voicing his thoughts. He still couldn't believe that John had let himself be kissed.

"Do I like _what, _Sherlock? The kisses? The bench? The trees?"

"The kisses, you idiot," Sherlock said fondly.

"I'm not sure I've had enough to know for sure whether I like them or not," John joked, earning himself another round of kisses from Sherlock. John interrupted to say, "Kissing aside – and yes, you are a very good kisser, Sherlock, you don't need me to tell you that –"

"I don't want to hear that from anyone else, John. I only want _you_ to like my kisses. Other people are irrelevant. I only want _you_, now." John felt a shiver run through his body at Sherlock's words.

"When did this start, Sherlock?" John asked, softly. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I've been trying to tell you all week, John. You just didn't take the hint, or didn't want to believe it."

"I noticed things, Sherlock – how could I not notice when you practically sat in my lap in the Korean restaurant and licked the ice cream cone right in front of me? Nice phallic gesture, by the way. I know I'm not as observant as you are, but I'd have to be a lot denser than I am to miss that."

"Why didn't you respond, then?" Sherlock asked.

"I –Sherlock –" John started. "I still can't entirely believe that this is happening. You, with me, I mean. You have to excuse me if it takes me a while to get used to the idea."

"Well, I've been thinking about it for six months," Sherlock announced. "Ever since that terrible night in Wales, which you _must_ forgive me for. Immediately. Say you will, John, or I'll never stop kicking myself for having hurt you."

"Give me some time, Sherlock," John said. "I told you, I still cannot believe that you have actually changed your mind. But keep on as you were, and I'm sure that I'll come around eventually."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked. "You can't tell how I feel about you? Even now?" His eyes were wide and worried.

"I'm starting to believe it," John admitted. "But you have to understand that it may take a little time. You don't exactly make it easy to guess what you're feeling."

"I see." Sherlock grew silent. "Would you prefer that I don't kiss you? Until you believe me that I'm serious?"

"No! It's not that – the kisses are quite nice, Sherlock, and greatly reassuring, believe me. I like them, I like them a lot. It's just – " John paused, looking for the right words. " –you don't know how long I've hoped that something like this would happen. And if you're not serious about this, Sherlock, I will make sure that you never mess with my heart again." His voice had a threatening tone to it, one that Sherlock knew well, the kind of voice that John used when he really was going to toss one of Sherlock's experiments, it didn't matter how much Sherlock protested, John would ensure that those bloody eyeballs ended up in the incinerator the very next day. It was John's no-holds-barred-take-no-prisoners voice, and it always got Sherlock's attention. It was not for nothing, after all, that John was a soldier.

Sherlock gulped. "I meant it when I said that I wanted to try a relationship with you. I'm not good at these things, but I do want to try. With _you_," he clarified. "Can we try? _Please,_ John?"

John leaned against Sherlock, breathing in the smell of Sherlock's wool coat. It was so comforting to be close to him like this, to just be sitting there, together, talking, touching each other, kissing – John felt as if he might burst from happiness. Was it possible to have his heart broken twice in the same year? By the same man? For it felt like his heart was breaking now, as Sherlock said those words. And John would do anything to reassure Sherlock that, yes, it was possible to learn how to love – what utter bollocks he'd said in the museum – and it thrilled John to think that, out of all people, Sherlock would choose _him_, John Watson.

"Yes, we can try, Sherlock," John said. "Though there's a lot to sort out, a lot of misunderstandings we need to clear up."

"We have time for that, John," Sherlock reassured him. "There's plenty of time for that. My job is almost over here, and I don't have another meeting until Tuesday."

"Sherlock, I don't just mean that we have to talk things through – though we do need to do that – and then everything will be fine. I mean, to have a relationship with someone is a lot of work. And you already _are_ a lot of work. At least, that's how it feels to me."

"But won't it better," Sherlock proposed, "now that we're in a relationship? You can tell me things so much more directly now."

John laughed at Sherlock's ignorance. "That's likely to just make things more difficult," he pointed out. "It's one thing to get peeved with your flatmate, but it's another thing to have a fight with your lover. And I can't see how much more direct I can get with you than I already am."

"Is that how you think of me?" Sherlock asked. "As your lover?"

John blushed. "Not right now, no," he admitted. "Not yet. But things are headed that way, aren't they?"

Sherlock nodded.

John continued. "What I mean, Sherlock, is that our starting something together is likely to make things _more_ complicated, not less. At least in the short term. And you do know that things might not work out. That happens in relationships, too. Like me and Sarah not working out."

"But you're still friends with Sarah," Sherlock reminded him. "And we could remain friends, too."

"I honestly don't know if we could," John said. "I'd like to believe that it's possible, but it doesn't always turn out that way. And the comparison with Sarah may not be the right one to make. Yes, she's still my colleague and my boss, but we only dated for a few months. And even she could see, at the time, that my friendship with you went much deeper than my romance with her."

"She said that?"

"Not in so many words. But, ultimately, you were the reason we broke up." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if skeptical. "Don't give me that look, Sherlock," John said. "As if you didn't know that already."

"Know what?"

"That Sarah broke up with me because I spent too much time solving cases with you. She saw how I felt about you before _I_ even did."

"I thought – that first night at Angelo's – weren't you asking me if I was available? Weren't you interested then?"

"Well, yes, I was," John admitted. "But then you made it pretty clear that you weren't interested, _married to your work_ and so on and so forth. So I put my eggs in another basket and started to see Sarah. Only you had this infuriating habit of showing up on our dates, and getting us kidnapped, and pulling me away just when we had our pants around our ankles, and –"

Sherlock interrupted him. "Thank you, John, I'd rather _not_ dwell on that image."

"Sorry. I'm just saying, you did behave as if you were trying to get her to leave me. Not that I'm complaining, now. But at the time I was just _furious _with you. You didn't want me as a boyfriend, and yet you didn't want anyone else to have me, either. I was in quite a bind, with you."

"So why did you keep working with me?" Sherlock asked. "Why didn't you find your own flat, or move in with Sarah?"

John looked down at his feet. "Because you fascinated me, Sherlock. I had felt so dull for so many months. In retrospect, I think I must have been depressed, in addition to the more obvious PTSD. Life seemed pointless, everything was washed out and faded – that's really how things seemed to me, Sherlock, I _literally_ couldn't see colour any more. Just grays, and dark blues, and greens. And then I met you at St. Bart's, and everything changed. It wasn't just that I stopped using my cane, though I still consider that a minor miracle. It was that – I felt that I had a purpose again, which was to help you."

"You've always been more than a helper, you know," Sherlock said. "More like a partner, I'd say."

"Yeah, partner in crime is more like it. That's what Sarah used to say about us. _Why don't you go and fuck your little partner in crime up the arse?_ She said once when she was very angry." Sherlock flinched. "Yes, Sarah actually said that. She may look like a sweetie but she can talk like a sailor when she wants to. I think that was the time when we had our pants d– but you didn't want to hear about that so I won't say any more. Suffice it to say that, whenever you called or texted me, there was _nothing_ that could stop me from going."

"I think I took advantage of that," Sherlock admitted. If they were going to start a relationship together, he reasoned, it was best that he be honest about past sins.

"Yes, you did, Sherlock," John said. "And that made it even harder for me. I found myself falling in love with you, and you didn't seem to care, at all. You found it quite useful, actually, to have a besotted assistant who would jump at the opportunity to be of the slightest use to you."

"I think you're being a bit unfair, John," Sherlock protested. "Yes, I did want your help. But I didn't just want your company so that you could fend off Anderson and Donovan, even though you became good at that kind of thing, too. I wasn't looking for an errand boy."

"What _were_ you looking for?" John asked.

"A partner, you dolt! A _partner_!"

"Colleague?"

"More like a friend, actually," Sherlock said. "I was lonely. Yes, even the great Sherlock Holmes gets lonely once in a while. And then you came, and you were so different from anyone else that I had ever met. I was intrigued."

"Me? Different? I think I'm quite ordinary."

"You're not, John Watson, and don't give me that. You are an extraordinary individual and it's time that you give yourself more credit."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said. "I still can't believe we're talking about all this."

"Oh course we are, John. We're in a _relationship!"_ Sherlock grinned widely. "And because we're in a relationship, I am going to ask you on a date. Right now. Would you like to accompany me to Chinatown?"

"You were serious about the fortune, then," John said.

"Of _course_ I was serious. I predicted that you'd eat Chinese food, and go home with someone dark and handsome. And am I not right, on both accounts?"

"You are, Sherlock. You're almost always right."

"See?" Sherlock said. "It's so much easier being in a relationship. Because I can make my predictions come true!"

"Maybe I am putting a damper on things, but your predictions would have come true whether or not you kissed me. After all, we've been sharing a bed for the last three nights, and we've been flatmates for much longer."

"From flatmates to bedmates," Sherlock murmured, bringing John close for another kiss. "I quite like that idea."

John put his foot down when Sherlock suggested Sichuan food – he would _not _have another encounter with a hot pepper – and they ate milder Cantonese fare at the Golden Unicorn, followed by a trip to the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.

"It seems strange to be eating so much ice cream in the middle of winter," John commented as they entered the crowded store. Even on Christmas Eve, it seemed, there were people who wanted a cold dessert.

"How do you feel about durian?" Sherlock asked.

"Durian?"

"Yes, a fruit from southeast Asia, related to the jackfruit, but much more fragrant – or odourous. An old Thai saying is that durian is 'hell on the outside and heaven on the inside.' "

"Sounds like a certain consulting detective," John joked.

Sherlock glared at him and continued. "Some people think it smells like rotting flesh, others compare it to almonds. But I think it smells like sex. It has that deep, musky aroma, redolent of dirt and grass and the seaside. Like sex," he repeated, as if that needed clarification.

John blushed despite himself. "I guess I know what flavour you're getting," he joked.

"Actually," Sherlock said, "I was thinking of going for the lychee, myself; the flavour is a bit more delicate. I mentioned the durian because it reminded me of you, as you do have a taste for the exotic."

"Thanks," John said. "The fruit that smells like sex reminded you of me. Let me guess where your mind is headed."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Let's not be too hasty, John. I just thought you'd _like _it."

"I'm sure I will." To the teenage girl behind the counter, who was listening to them with a smirk on her face, John asked for one durian cone and one lychee cone.

They ate their ice cream as they wandered the Chinatown streets, watching merchants pack up their stalls and prepare for closing. Sherlock wouldn't let go of John's hand, not until it was time to look for a cab and John pointed out that it was a bit tricky to signal for one if they were joined at the wrist.

They had shared a bed for the last several nights, without saying anything about it to each other, but as they rode up the elevator to the penthouse, John realized that he was both excited and anxious about sharing a bed with Sherlock that night.

"What's the protocol for starting a relationship with someone who's already sharing your bed?" Sherlock asked, once the door had shut behind them.

"I don't think there's a hard and fast rule for that, Sherlock," John said, laughing.

"Should we still share the bed tonight? Now that we've…" Sherlock looked hopeful.

"We can do whatever we want, Sherlock. We're grown adults and we don't have to follow any rules."

"Yes, but haven't we skipped a few steps? Don't kisses come before sharing a bed, not after?"

"Sherlock, our whole relationship thus far – and I don't mean the one that just began today – has been one big exercise in breaking the rules."

"Still," Sherlock insisted, "I want to know: when is it appropriate to start sharing a bed? I thought that it took several dates before Sarah let you spend the night, and even then she didn't let you sleep in her bed, so I'm wondering if it's not good that _we_ are already sharing a bed."

"I'd say the number one rule of a new relationship, if you are looking for rules, is to _not_ ask your mate what he did with previous partners."

"So, no talk about Sarah? But how else am I going to know what you expect from a relationship?"

"Er, I can think of a few ways that don't involve deductions that extrapolate from a relationship that didn't work. I'm not saying that it's off limits to ask me about Sarah, but I'd rather you and I talk about what _we_ want to do, not what _I did with Sarah_ once upon a time."

Sherlock blinked. "I see. Well, then. John. How do you feel about sharing the bed with me tonight?"

"Are you asking me about sleeping next to each other, like we've been doing for the last several nights, or are you asking about having sex?"

Sherlock dropped his coat on the chair and came closer to John, taking the shorter man in his arms and gazing at him.

"John, given that I've shared the bed with you for the last three nights and did not cop a single feel – despite the great temptation – you don't really believe that I'm thinking of kipping out on the sofa _now, _are you?"

John swallowed nervously as Sherlock brought his to mouth close to his. He wanted the kissing to start again, but he knew that he needed to make clear a few things with Sherlock first.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, twisting away slightly. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned. John extricated himself from Sherlock's arms and sat down on the sofa. Sherlock sat next to him.

"What I mean is, I tell you that we should talk about _our_ relationship, and what we want from each other, and you immediately ask me about sex!"

"Not good?"

"No, a bit not good, Sherlock."

"Why not? Is that not the fundamental difference between the relationship we had last week, and the one that we began today? Sex?"

"Two friends don't become lovers just because they have sex together. Hell, I could have sex with any stranger and that wouldn't mean that we're in a _relationship_."

"But it's a very important distinction," Sherlock insisted.

"How so?"

"I've never had sex with a friend before," Sherlock said.

"You've never had sex with a friend?" John asked, a bit astonished. Their knees grazed each other and Sherlock had thrown a long arm around John's shoulder. Apparently the detective was trying to get as close to John as possible while remaining next to him on the couch. "You haven't had a friend with benefits? Or a friend whom you slept with by accident when you were drunk or high?"

"That's ludicrous, John. I didn't shoot up with anyone I would consider a _friend._"

John remembered that it was _Sherlock Holmes _he was dealing with; for all he knew, he was the first friend that Sherlock had ever had.

"How many friends have you had, Sherlock?" John asked quietly. "No, wait – you don't have to tell me. That's a stupid question, and inconsiderate of me. If you asked me the same, I wouldn't be able to tell you the answer."

"That's because you have too many friends to count, John," Sherlock said. "But there are very few people whom I would consider my _friends. _You, of course." Sherlock took John's hand and began to rub his fingers lightly over his palm, tracing the heartline again. "And Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Does family count?"

"Yes," John said. "I love Harry but I'm not her friend. So family should count because they're not automatically your friends."

"My cousin Georgina. Aunt Rosalind."

"Wait – I've never heard you mention these people before."

"That's because they're dead," Sherlock said in a flat voice.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said. "Was that recent?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Aunt Rosalind died when I was at uni. And Georgina died in June."

"In _June_, Sherlock? _This_ June?" Sherlock nodded. "Why didn't you tell me about her? And why didn't you mention that a family member of yours had died?"

"We were in the middle of a case. It didn't seem important at the time."

"Not important? Sherlock, if she was one of your friends, as well as your cousin, then of _course_ that was important! I should have known that. I would _like_ to know these things about your life, Sherlock, if we are going to be in a relationship."

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. "I don't always know myself what is important and what is not when it comes to other people," he explained.

"Yes, I've figured out as much by now, thank you," John said, kissing Sherlock's cheek. "That's why I'm telling you these things: so you're _know._ I want you to tell me when someone you love –" Sherlock flinched – "dies. Wait - that must have been just before we went to Wales! And you didn't say a word." Sherlock looked abashed. "You have to tell me, Sherlock. I might have understood your reaction better at the time, why you were so on edge when I said I wanted something more. You had just lost someone you loved. But you should have told me about that! And I want you to tell me other things, too. Like what you want from me."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head on John's shoulder. "I want _you_, John. I want to be like _this_ together. I – I don't know what else to say, John. What do you want me to say?"

"That's enough for now, Sherlock," John said, before surprising Sherlock with a firm kiss on his mouth. "Perhaps we can start here and see where things take us? Eh?"

"I want to know what you expect from me, John. Tonight. I need to know what you want me to do."

John laughed. "I certainly don't want you doing anything that you don't want to do, Sherlock! This is new for both of us. I'd hate for us to rush into something prematurely and miss the time we would have spent getting to know each other."

"Can you be plainer, John?"

John sighed. "I don't want us to have sex tonight, Sherlock. We can share the bed, yes – we've been doing it the last few nights, after all – but I for one would like to take things slowly."

"Meaning?"

"Sherlock, I _don't know_ exactly what that means! Do you want me to spell out exactly what we can and cannot do?"

"Yes."

"But I'm telling you, I can't _do_ that, that's something we have to work out together. I'm not the only one making the decisions, here. That's the whole point of a relationship."

Sherlock looked a bit frightened, if it were possible for Sherlock Holmes to feel fear.

"All right, all right, Sherlock. Let's start with kissing. We can both agree that it's OK for us to kiss each, right?"

"Correct."

"Good." John started to laugh. "I feel like I'm in secondary school again, trying to see if my girlfriend will let me put my hand up her shirt!"

"I don't see how this is the same thing at all."

"No, you might not see why, Sherlock. But that is why you are so _you_." John took Sherlock's face in his hands and carefully, slowly, ran his lips over the other's mouth. When Sherlock began to open his mouth, John murmured, "No, no, just the lips for now. Just the lips, Sherlock." Sherlock sat back against the sofa cushions and let John cover his mouth with soft, insistent kisses, until Sherlock's lips were red and he was gasping, "John! John!"

John pulled away triumphantly. "See how I've barely touched you and you are already aroused?"

"What does this have to do with anything?" Sherlock gasped.

"This is why I want to take things slowly, Sherlock. Because sex can become dull over time. Not that I think that sex with you could ever be dull. But – it's more special, somehow, if you take your time learning what the other person likes, instead of jumping straight into bed together." A thought occurred to him.

"Sherlock, what has sex been like for you?"

"Most of the time?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, most of the time."

"I don't know how you would characterize it. Hard. Fast. Tedious." John smiled.

"Who were your partners? Is it alright that I ask you that?" John stroked Sherlock's hair.

"Of course it's alright, John. I didn't care about any of them, so why would I care about telling you? They were people I met at bars, at clubs, at crack houses. Just people around."

"Men or women?"

"Both." John held Sherlock more tightly. He felt suddenly protective of his friend, and sorry for him, too. What must it be like, to have only had sex with strangers? To never have loved a lover?

"Was it consensual?"

"I never raped anyone, if that's what you meant, John."

"No, I wasn't thinking that, Sherlock. I would never think that of you. I was more concerned about whether _you_ wanted to have sex with those people, at the time."

"Not always." Sherlock shrugged. "But it was over quickly, in most cases."

John sucked in his breath sharply. There was so much that he wanted to tell Sherlock – that he was sorry for him, for all that Sherlock had missed out on; that he would be a very different kind of lover for Sherlock; that he never would have Sherlock to have sex just because it was something that John wanted. But John held back saying these things, because he didn't want Sherlock to feel embarrassed or to feel like he had done something wrong in his previous sexual encounters. _I want to show him how good it can really be, _John thought. _I want him to learn what it is like to really __**want**__ someone, to feel that great build-up that comes from flirtation and touching and kissing, before any clothes come off. Sherlock needs this; he has no knowledge of this. _It pleased John enormously to think that he might teach Sherlock something, after all.

All he said was, "I don't want this to be over quickly, Sherlock."

"Nor do I," Sherlock whispered. "Please, John, may I kiss you again?"

"Yes, Sherlock, you may. Yes!"

Sherlock adjusted himself on the sofa, moving his knees further out so that he could turn and face John directly. John also moved, pulling back from the sofa cushions, and met Sherlock at the sofa's edge. At first, when Sherlock kissed John, he kept his grip light on John's fingers and held his torso away from the other man. _John said we should just kiss, _Sherlock thought. _And I'm curious to see what this feels like, just kissing him._

Their lips and hands were the only places where they touched; even their knees were kept apart as Sherlock and John explored each other's mouths and hands with their own. Sherlock discovered how John's breath would stop whenever he bit down on his lower lip, and John was struck by how smooth Sherlock's face and how soft his hands were; just noticing that smoothness was enough to make John turn hard in other places, too. Their hands were almost as active as their tongues, rubbing fingers over each other's, seeking out contact, each prompting tickles and shivers in the other as Sherlock now ran the pads of his fingers over John's palm, or John brushed Sherlock's knuckles with the back of his. There were many gasps and pants and small moans; strokes and bites and smiles; and long, languorous kisses when John thought that he might just melt in Sherlock's mouth, so warm and inviting it was.

_I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes,_ John said to himself, for not the first time that day. _I'm actually kissing __**Sherlock. **__And damn, all of my self-control is going to go out the window if he keeps up that thing with his fingers on my palm. It feels like he's playing Mozart on my heartline, which is entirely possible given how Sherlock feels about Mozart and the violin. And now – change in the rules? He's taking my hand, he's bringing it up and – oh! YES! Yes, that's very good, Sherlock. Very good, indeed._

Sherlock was slowly sucking on John's pointer finger, and the sensation brought chills down John's spine. _It's just his mouth, _John had to remind himself. _And that's just my finger. So why is it so special, so completely __**amazing**__, that he is doing this to me and making me feel this way? It's not as if I haven't done this before. But it was never with Sherlock. Why? Why didn't we do this earlier?_

"Stop thinking," Sherlock ordered, pulling away from John's finger with a tight popping noise that sounded strangely erotic in the silent penthouse. "I need you to _stop thinking._"

John pulled Sherlock's face to him and began to frantically kiss at his lips, prying his mouth open with his tongue until their two open mouths ringed each other. John swirled his tongue around Sherlock's and then sucked gently on its tip. Sherlock began to mew.

"Oh, you like that, do you?" John asked, pulling away.

The kisses grew faster and more heated after that. Soon it wasn't enough to them to be seated and facing each other; Sherlock longed to press his body against John's, and John did not protest when Sherlock gently pressed him down against the sofa's cushions. Sherlock lay his long body on top of John's, and waited for a few moments until he could feel John's heart beating under his.

"I want to kiss you, John Watson," he panted.

"I thought that's what we were doing," John pointed out.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But I wanted to make sure it was fine if I did _this_." He rolled his hips over John's, causing John to buck up against him when he felt their erections come together.

"Yes, Sherlock – yes, that's fine. It's all fine. I said, we'd take this at our own pace – just, Sherlock—" John gasped "— can we go into the bedroom if we're going to do this?"

Sherlock jumped off of him, taking John by the hands and practically dragging him in to the other room. The bedroom was dark and Sherlock fumbled around for the dim light near the bed. _I need to see you, John,_ he thought. _I need to touch you, and I need to see your face when you come. This is alright, isn't it, John?_

"This is alright, isn't it, John?" Sherlock asked, when he pushed John down on the bed and assumed the position that they had had on the sofa, spreading himself over John's body. John nodded his assent as Sherlock's mouth trailed over his chin and down his neck, past his sternum and downwards as Sherlock slowly unbuttoned John's shirt. With every inch gained, Sherlock explored the surface of John's chest. He twirled the other man's soft blond hair between his fingers and listened to John pant his name above. When Sherlock put his mouth on John's left nipple, John gasped and grabbed Sherlock's head, keeping him firmly in place.

"You like this, do you?" Sherlock asked, before loosening the buttons at John's wrists and turning his friend slightly so that he could remove the shirt entirely.

"Yes," John said in a scratchy voice. "I – yes, Sherlock, I – don't stop!" Sherlock moved to John's other nipple, and as he sucked and twirled around it, his fingers strayed towards the wiry hair under John's arms. He moved slowly, so that he wouldn't trigger the tickle reflex, just lightly stroking the outside of John's chest and under his arms, where they met his shoulders. John began to wriggle under Sherlock, but when Sherlock rubbed his nose against him, he was too turned on to protest or worry about what he might smell like.

_This is John's scent,_ Sherlock thought, pleased to finally be close enough to smell him properly. _This scent that I have been chasing after, this unnameable scent, this Watson-ness. JOHN._

Next, Sherlock's hands ventured up to John's shoulder. He pulled his head back to examine John's scar.

"You aren't ashamed of your scar," Sherlock observed.

"Why should I be?" John asked.

"Some people are," Sherlock said. "They think scars make them look less beautiful."

"I've never really worried about my beauty, Sherlock," John said.

"That's because you are a very, _very_ attractive man," Sherlock whispered in a sultry voice. "And don't tell me you don't know that." He smiled against John's shoulder and then began to kiss across the scar. Sherlock knew that the scar tissue wasn't as sensitive as the skin around it, and so the injured shoulder really shouldn't have been an erogenous zone for John, but there was something about feeling Sherlock's mouth on his most vulnerable spot that made John want to sob. He cried out Sherlock's name instead and hugged the other man to him, shifting Sherlock's head so that it rested on his chest.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's thick hair and tried to suppress the tears that were rising to his eyes. _It probably doesn't matter, _he thought. _Sherlock will have noticed what it did to me, to have him touch my scar that way. _

"This is so good, John," Sherlock said, below him.

"I know," John said. "Sherlock – when you kissed my scar, do you know what it seemed like to me?"

"No. What?" Sherlock nestled closer to John.

"It was if you were _worshipping_ my scar."

"I was paying it homage," Sherlock corrected him. "That is, paying homage to your injury."

"But – _why_? It's just an ugly mess of tissue."

"You said you didn't care about being beautiful, John."

"I don't. But why were you doing that?"

"Because, if you hadn't been injured, you wouldn't have been sent back to England. And I would never have met you." Sherlock crawled up and rested his forehead against John's, their noses pressed tightly together. "Which would have been _most_ unfortunate, I think we can both agree." He smiled mischievously and began to kiss John again, all the while unbuttoning his own shirt. John slipped his hands around Sherlock's back and then helped Sherlock to remove his cufflinks and slide out of his sleeves.

Sherlock's skin was soft, impossible soft, John thought. His body was almost hairless and it was like running his hands over silk, to rub his hands freely against Sherlock's back and torso. Sherlock hissed when John touched his ribs, and John took note of that particular location on Sherlock's body. He was so busy learning Sherlock's chest, memorizing what he liked and disliked, that he almost did not notice that Sherlock had opened his zipper and had slipped a hand inside his trousers, rubbing at John's penis through his pants.

"Sherlock!" John cried out as the other man's hands came in contact with that most sensitive of places.

Sherlock stopped immediately. "Is that not alright?" He asked worriedly. "Is this going too far?" John shook his head and lay back against the bed again, his head lolling from side to side as Sherlock slowly pulled his trousers and pants off, leaving John naked and panting on the sheets. And then he was touching John again, rubbing his fingers lightly against the underside of his shaft, dipping to cup John's balls and shift them lightly from side to side, as if he were weighing a precious object. Sherlock paid close attention to John's reactions, adjusting the pressure and speed of his fingers according to the way John breathed or moved.

"I like to see you like this," Sherlock whispered. "Like this, spread out underneath me. Naked. Exposed."

John grunted. Sherlock spit into his hand and gripped John's penis, lightly pumping his hand up and down. John cried out when Sherlock tugged on his foreskin, batting Sherlock's hands away.

"Shhh, John," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry, that was too rough. Shh. I won't do it again. Just lie back and relax. Let me give you this." John obeyed – what else could he do? He was terribly aroused and was being given a handjob by the most attractive man that he knew. _I'm not going anywhere,_ John thought. _Just keep doing what you're doing and I'll – _

"Good GOD Sherlock," John burst out. "Yes, that's it. Right there. Just like that. Don't stop."

"I'm not stopping, John," Sherlock said, as he dipped his fingers lower to fondle John's balls again. He noticed how John groaned when his fingers left John's shaft, and John jerked his hips upwards, as if he was looking for Sherlock's touch again.

It was almost over, right then, when Sherlock put his lips over John's foreskin, suckling gently until John felt the heat rise up in him, deep in his belly, and with all of the willpower he could muster, he pushed Sherlock's head up.

"You don't – have – to – do – that," he panted in jagged breaths.

"Maybe I don't _have_ to," Sherlock said deviously, "but I really think I _should_, don't you?"

"Arg!" John shouted, as Sherlock returned his hot mouth to his penis and sucked slowly, carefully, from the root to the tip and back again, until John's hips began to jerk again, and this time John really _was_ on the edge, and Sherlock knew it, and he concentrated his tongue on John's balls instead, taking the stimulation away from his penis, until John began to cry out in panic, willing Sherlock to return to where he had been before, and _then_, and only then, did Sherlock suck John dry.

That is what it felt like to John, as if Sherlock were pulling the orgasm from him, extracting every drop of liquid from his body in long, electric waves until John cried out Sherlock's name, over and over, as if it were the only thing he knew how to say, and then fell back, spent, gripping Sherlock's head in his hands.

A few minutes later, when John had calmed down, and Sherlock had moved his head up next to John's, John realized that Sherlock still had his trousers on. Sherlock was staring at him, examining his face carefully, when John moved his hand down Sherlock's chest, towards his groin. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and settled it around his neck in a gentle embrace.

"Not now, John," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" John was eager to give Sherlock something of what he had just experienced.

"Because today was about _you_, John." Sherlock's tone implied that this was something that John should have already known. "You said we'd only do what we wanted to do. And I wanted to give you that. But I don't want you to touch me, not tonight. Tonight was for you. To show you - to show you that I am serious."

John laughed.

"I know it's not enough to just get you off, John, but _please_, I wanted to give this to you. So let me."

"Sherlock – that was – you are -"

"Amazing?" Sherlock interrupted. "Exactly how I feel about you. God, you should have seen your face when you came!"

John turned to him and kissed him slowly and tenderly. "You have always been amazing to me, Sherlock. But _this_ –" John rubbed his body against Sherlock's. "I had imagined us together, but I had never imagined it quite like _this_."

Sherlock smiled. "Glad that I exceeded your expectations, John."

"That's an understatement. Our friendship is pretty much characterized by you exceeding my expectations."

"And now – now that we're not just friends?" Sherlock asked.

"I think that's the part that is the most incredible," John said. "That you're willing to try a relationship with _me_."

"Of course it would be with _you_, John. With whom else?"

John giggled. "The thousands of admirers you have?"

"What admirers, John? Any admirers I have are entirely because of you and your blog."

"I think that your dashing good looks must have something to do with it, too. Don't be modest, Sherlock," John said, suddenly turning over and lying on top of Sherlock. He kissed his lover on the tip of his nose.

"Do you know what time it is, John?" Sherlock asked, twisting his head to try to see the bedside clock.

"It's 12:36 a.m.," John announced. "Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas to you, too," Sherlock said. "I never thought I'd _like_ saying that to someone."

"Come on, Sherlock, even _you_ can't be such a sourpuss," John said, as he pulled Sherlock closer to him for another kiss. "Are you sure you don't want a _Christmas present_ from me?" John asked, moving his hand lower to cup at Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock moved his hand away. "I'm very tempted, John – you don't know how absolutely fucking delicious you look right now. If I were a different kind of man, I'd begin to debauch you straightaway. But I meant what I said: tonight was about _you_."

"Do you know what I'm thinking right now?" John asked.

"Oh, probably that you're falling in love with me. Or is that too presumptuous of me?" Sherlock sat up and stretched his long trousered legs in front of him, leaning back against the head of the bed.

"Entirely too presumptuous, Sherlock. But also very much true. So now you know everything about me."

"Not everything, John," Sherlock said. "And though I never guess, I did guess a bit about that."

"How so?"

"It's what I was feeling too, John. That I was falling in love with you. And I hoped you were feeling the same."

"You are a sentimental schoolgirl, you know that, Sherlock?

"Mmmm. John?"

"Yes?"

"Can we do this tomorrow?"

"Yes. Now, let's turn off the light and go to sleep.

"Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

><p><strong>Nota bene: There will be more, of course there will be more. But I (as well as John) am a bit spent at the moment. So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!<strong>


	9. Pax VIII

Pax VIII

Christmas Morning

When John opened his eyes the next morning, he came face-to-face with Sherlock's great gray eyes. Sherlock lay on his side, silently watching John, his head resting in his palm.

"What the hell!" John yelped. "Don't _do_ that to me, Sherlock. You scared me."

"It's not the first time I've watched you when you were sleeping," Sherlock admitted.

"That's _so_ reassuring," John said sarcastically. "So, tell me, what did you learn about me from the way I snore?"

"You don't snore, for one thing. You like to sleep on your back, which is why you didn't stay in my arms for long last night. But most people find it uncomfortable to sleep on their backs and will only sleep that way if other positions are even more uncomfortable. So, I surmise that you developed the habit of sleeping on your back after you were shot in the shoulder. As anyone with an injury to the chest or shoulder will tell you, the best sleeping position is on your back."

"But sometimes I sleep on my right side," John pointed out.

"You would, because it still hurts to sleep on your left, correct?" John nodded. "But it's interesting that you sleep on your back most of the time, and not on your side, because sleeping face-up leaves you very open and exposed. It's not the position I would expect someone with nightmares to prefer. Hence, I conclude that you feel safe sleeping next to me. Very satisfactory finding, I think." Sherlock smiled and looked down at John, stroking his hair away from his forehead. He traced John's hairline with his fingers, noticing how his lover's hair was fairest around his face.

"When you put it that way," John said, "it's hard to complain about you 'deducing' me. Good morning, by the way. How did you sleep?

"Why don't you tell me, John?" Sherlock reached down and kissed John's forehead. John sighed. It was _this _that was going to undo him: this unexpected tenderness from Sherlock. Remembering what Sherlock had done to him the night before, John closed his eyes for a second before answering.

"From the looks of things, you've been awake for a while, but you haven't got out of bed yet, so not too long. I expect you slept later than usual for you, if you slept at all. Am I right?"

"You're right." Sherlock lay down on his back, stretching his arms high above his head and arching his back like a cat. "Mmmm."

John lay next to him, his hands behind his head. "So, Sherlock. This is the 'morning after.' What was it that you said you wanted to do today?"

Sherlock rolled over suddenly and pinned John down. "First," he said, "I suggest we both brush our teeth and take a shower."

"Ever practical, Sherlock," John said. "OK, who's first, you or me?"

"You go, John. I'll jump in when you're done."

"Are you sure you don't want to join me?" John asked, hopefully. He still hadn't seen Sherlock naked and he was more than a little curious. But Sherlock shook his head.

Once John was done, Sherlock took his turn. He wrapped himself in his blue dressing gown and returned to the bedroom. John was seated on the edge of the high bed, wearing trousers and beginning to button up his shirt.

"Planning to go somewhere?" Sherlock smirked. John looked up.

"Err—not if you'd rather stay here," John said. "I just – I didn't want to jump to conclusions."

Sherlock laughed. "Of course I want to stay here, John. In _bed_," he clarified. "With you." Sherlock stepped closer to John and put his hands on the doctor's shoulders. John spread his legs and pulled Sherlock snug between his knees, grabbing the backs of Sherlock's thighs as he did so. Sherlock let out a pleased little yelp as John's hands moved upwards and grazed over his buttocks. Then they reached for each other, kissing frantically and purposefully. John could feel the stubble on Sherlock's chin and imagined that his cheek must feel the same to Sherlock.

It had been several years since John had kissed a man, and he was reminded anew of just how different it was – but still very pleasant – from kissing a woman. John wouldn't have characterised any of his former girlfriends as 'passive' or 'restrained,' but he had always felt the expectation, from them and from himself, to take the lead in these kinds of situations. Even a kiss could reflect a hierarchy, he realized, as Sherlock continued to work his mouth over John's. It didn't surprise him that Sherlock would want to be dominant in bed, and for once John was happy to cede this particular responsibility, but he also looked forward to seeing Sherlock lose some of _his_ control. For now, however, it was lovely to feel Sherlock push him down and onto the bed, to grip his legs tightly around Sherlock's waist, and to listen to Sherlock's sharp breath as their groins met. And it was _ever_ so pleasant to lie back and let Sherlock suck on his neck, and work his mouth across John's collarbone, and for John to realize that not only was he allowing Sherlock to explore his scar, but he found himself actually _anticipating_ the feel of Sherlock's mouth over the wound. When Sherlock drew an outline around the scar with his tongue, John felt his chest grow tighter as he involuntarily blurted out Sherlock's name.

"Shh, John," Sherlock said, fearing he had startled John. "Let me touch you like this. I won't hurt you."

"I _know_ you won't hurt me," John said. "I'm just – surprised that I like it so much. What you're doing with your mouth."

"I'm so very glad that _you_ think so," Sherlock murmured, still running his mouth over John's skin. "What else would you like me to do?"

John sighed. _Could this man possibly be any more desirable? Unlikely._

John sat up, pushing back against Sherlock to give himself some room as he removed his shirt. Then he scooted backwards a foot, making space for Sherlock to sit in front of him, on the edge of the bed. John reached for Sherlock and turned his friend around, then pulled him close so that Sherlock was sitting on the bed, his back flat against John's chest. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's ribs and kissed the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"You are incredible, Sherlock," John whispered. "After what you did to me last night, _I_ should be the one asking you what you like."

"There will be time for that, John," Sherlock said. "But you have to let me touch you again first. I can't stand not knowing everything about you."

John laughed, continuing to kiss Sherlock's neck as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair. "I understand the urgency, Sherlock. I feel the same way. I want _you._" He moved his fingers lower, brushing against Sherlock's neck again as he began to slide Sherlock's dressing gown off his shoulders. He ran his fingers over Sherlock's upper back, noticing how his shoulder blades jutted out under the blue silk. Sherlock arched his neck, dropping his head backwards as John ran a finger down his spinal column, stopping at each vertebra before reaching the sash that held the gown together. It was snugly fastened in front, and John couldn't resist sneaking his hands around Sherlock's waist and tugging at one end of the sash, loosening the knot. But Sherlock grabbed John's hands, stilling them as he said, "Not now, John." Instead, John moved his hands lower, resting them on the top of Sherlock's thighs, where his legs met his hips, and returned to kissing Sherlock's delectable neck.

John liked the feel of Sherlock seated between his legs; as they were facing the same direction, it gave John a slight advantage because Sherlock couldn't see what he was doing, and he couldn't guess where John's hands and mouth would go next. John spent some time kissing the back of Sherlock's neck and his upper back, surprised again at how smooth the other man's skin was. _It is as if he has never seen the sun, never formed a single wrinkle_, John thought. _Or maybe I'm just used to seeing the sunburnt bodies of our troops in the operating theatre._ John nudged closer to Sherlock, spreading his legs wider so that his inner legs pressed hard against Sherlock's lower back. When John leaned his hips forward, Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. He could feel John's groin move against his buttocks, and it excited him to know that John was behind him, choosing the direction that things would take.

"Remember what I said last night," John said. "We don't have to move quickly. We can take our time." Sherlock grunted in response, his hands tightly gripping the sheets. John reached and took Sherlock's hands in his, running his fingers over Sherlock's as he continued to murmur, "I want to learn your body, Sherlock. I want to know what you like, what you want from me." He paused. "What _do_ you want?"

"I want _you, _John," Sherlock said. "I want – I want you to be my – my _lover_." His voice broke on the last word, as if he were unaccustomed to saying it.

"I think we're already lovers, Sherlock," John said. "That happened last night, when you got me off. If you want to be technical about things." John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and joined his hands together round Sherlock's chest. He rocked them slightly as he spoke.

"Yes, I think I do want to be technical. What constitutes being someone's lover, John? Did you say that I was your lover because I gave you an orgasm? Does that mean that I'm your lover, but you're not mine? Would it have been any different if I had just kissed you and held you last night? I would have felt the same way about you even if we hadn't kissed at all." Sherlock swivelled his long neck, trying to look at John's expression, but John's head remained down, tucked into Sherlock's shoulder.

John held Sherlock tightly. "I'm very glad to hear that, Sherlock." He laughed. "But I think there _is_ something different that happens when two people become physically intimate."

"No euphemisms, John. I can't understand you when you use euphemisms."

John sighed. "Well, I guess by 'physically intimate' I mean when two people touch each other with some romantic or sexual intent. God, here I am turning into you, giving dictionary definitions of things!"

"Continue, please," Sherlock said.

"It could be a kiss or just holding hands, as far as I'm concerned; it doesn't need to involve genitalia." John blushed. "Is this blunt enough for you, Sherlock?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"I don't think, Sherlock, that it matters whether we are talking about a man and a woman, or two women, or two men." He paused, and laughed, hugging Sherlock more closely to him. "Well, _obviously_ I don't just go for that 'natural law' shite about love only being between a man and woman."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, but he smiled despite himself.

"I'm mentioning this because it's important, Sherlock. The way that we love is important. It's important to know what we consider _love_, and what we consider _sex._"

"Did we have sex last night?" Sherlock asked, curious? "Or was it love?"

"Oh, Sherlock. _Sherlock_. You ask impossible questions. And that is why I am crazy about you."

"Why are they impossible?"

"Why am I the one who is supposed to have all the answers?"

"Touché."

"Are you going to let me finish what I was saying, or are you going to keep asking me questions?"

"Sorry, John. I'll listen. Go on."

"It was one thing for us to share a bed three nights ago; it's another thing entirely to have woken up together this morning."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said. "Interesting. Go on."

"Something changed when you kissed me outside of the pastry shop. We went from friends to - something more than friends. I don't know if I would call us lovers at that point."

"But there _was_ physical intimacy," Sherlock said. "The kiss."

"Yes, the kiss. That signalled your intent. Towards me."

"I thought I had signalled it when we were at the museum, when I told you that I wanted to try a relationship with you."

"Yes, you silly, silly man," John said. "But that was a bit like what happened when I told you in Wales that I wanted a relationship with you, and you rejected me! It takes two to tango, as they say."

"Trite. Let's avoid those kinds of sayings; they remind me too much of Mycroft." John shuddered.

"Sorry. All this to say is - _I_ don't know where to draw the line, Sherlock. When did we cross over from being friends to being lovers? Was it when you kissed me for the first time? Or was it when we came back here, together, and you - you -"

" 'Got you off'?" Sherlock asked. "I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I'd never given it much thought before this morning. That's why I asked you. I figured that an army doctor, with your knowledge of the world, would have better formed opinions on the matter than I do. I have never been in a relationship before, after all, and this one is less than 24 hours old."

"This relationship began when you saw me enter the lab at St. Bart's," John said. "Don't pretend otherwise. And I'm not sure whether to be flattered or not that you think I am so wise in the ways of sex." John laughed. "I would have thought that _you_ might have used a little of your considerable brain power to categorize all the varieties of sexual experience."

"Categorization is not the same thing as caring about someone," Sherlock said huffily. "And I am not a walking encyclopaedia of sexual techniques, despite what you may believe."

John giggled. "You aren't? Then what was I getting myself into here?"

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You aren't being serious."

"No, I'm not. I don't care if you've memorised the Kama Sutra or are a virgin. It's not important. The important thing is that you're here, with _me_. And I'll take you any way I can get you."

"Madonna or whore?" Sherlock said slyly.

"Now _you're_ the one who's joking. Do you know what I love, Sherlock? I love this. Just being here, pressed against each other, talking about being lovers and what it means to be a lover. I don't know the exact definition, but I know that I love the _idea_ of you being my lover. God," he paused, overcome with emotion, "do you know what I would have given, six months ago, to have you say these things to me? To have this conversation?" Sherlock stiffened perceptibly. "Sherlock, I'm not saying that to criticize you. I'm telling you this because I want you to know how unbelievable it is for me to be here, with you, holding you and kissing you and just _being _here with you. What an incredible privilege it is."

Sherlock huffed. "It's hardly a privilege to be with _me_, John," he said sardonically.

"It is," John said. "And I won't ever stop telling you that."

"Are you serious, John?" Sherlock turned around fully and pushed John back onto the bed, lying over the doctor as he supported his body weight on his forearms. Sherlock's gaze was intense and almost sinister; John would have hated to have been a suspect under his interrogation.

"As serious as I can be, Sherlock," John said. "Now, as much as I enjoy discussing the ins and outs of our budding relationship - and believe me, it's rare to find a partner _this_ communicative so early in the game - if you excuse me, there's something else on my mind right now." As an afterthought, feeling Sherlock's weight on him, he added, "And on my body, too."

"Are you saying that you'd like to proceed with physical intimacy?"

"I thought you'd never ask," John said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss.

They kissed with a renewed vigour, as if their conversation had given them new ideas about the other and what it meant to be there, at that moment, commencing the physical part of their relationship.

_John, your lips, there, across my neck, _Sherlock thought. _Yes. Can you doubt how I feel about you, when I am panting your name as if it were a mantra? Can you doubt it now, when I am dragging my fingers across your chest, mapping your beautiful, broken body with my palms? The fact that you are broken makes you all the more precious to me. I could not be with someone who was perfect, or with someone who demanded perfection from me; too many people have tried and failed. I'm not superhuman; I am so very terribly human, and thus broken. How could it be otherwise? That is why I wanted to show you Rodin's Adam and Eve, to have you see that I believe in The Fall, yes, with uppercase letters, The Fall as Milton wrote about it: the imperfection of our nature is what permits us to find grace. _

_And so I love your scars, your burns, the bruise under your ribs – where did that come from, John? Did it come from my fingers, last night, when I held you as you slept? I did not sleep, John, or if I did, I dreamed a dream that was the same as wakefulness: I dreamed that I was next to you, and you were restful, at peace, and I had done something to put you in that state. You slept because of me. _

"Sherlock," John said, interrupting his reverie. "Stop thinking so much. Come back to me."

"Oh, John," Sherlock said. "I have thought of something else that I want to tell you."

"Can it wait?" John asked. "Because I very much want to keep kissing you. And I can't kiss you if you are talking to me."

Sherlock responded by dragging his mouth across John's chest, licking the areola of John's left nipple until John groaned with pleasure, convinced by this demonstration that Sherlock's mouth was now too occupied for speech.

Sherlock moved his mouth lower, following the trail of golden hair that ran from the centre of John's ribs and downward, to parts hidden by his trousers. John moved his hands to his fly, loosening the button and the zipper before he grabbed the waist of his trousers and pulled them, and his pants, off entirely. He lay naked beneath Sherlock.

"You are far too dressed right now," John said huskily. "I need to see you. Now." He reached up to pull again on the sash of Sherlock's robe. When it came undone, the dressing gown fell open and John glimpsed Sherlock's cock, long and straining, atop a mound of dark hair. It was as he had imagined it would be, and of course it wasn't at all like he had imagined. Certainly, the particulars were different than what he had expected – Sherlock wasn't circumcised, for example, which for some reason John found to be utterly astounding and attractive, just the thought that he might wrap his hand around Sherlock's foreskin and pull at it, gently, to reveal that tender skin underneath… - but what struck John the most was that Sherlock was showing him the most private part of himself.

_You've seen this before,_ John scrambled to remind himself, so that he wouldn't get too overwhelmed with the image. _You've seen plenty of men's penises; you've performed exams on them, even. Calm yourself before you come all over the bed. And don't forget, you've seen Sherlock's cock too, that time at the Palace – GOD, Mycroft, you were evil, pulling on that sheet. And Sherlock, I don't know if you were a babe in arms or just a very, very clever man – I'm inclined to believe the latter – because you **knew **that I was going to see that glorious arse sooner or later, if you kept on with the sheet wrapped around you. I was waiting to catch a glimpse of that arse and you knew it, I know you knew it. But it was just my luck that I had to see **this**_**, **_too_. _Though a limp cock is nothing in comparison with your cock right now. _

John reached for it, cupping Sherlock between his hands. Sherlock struggled to support himself on his forearms, fearing he might have to roll over onto the bed if John kept doing what he was doing. And Sherlock rather liked being above John, like this, and watching the expressions on John's face as John pulled his head up so that he could gaze at Sherlock, at both of them together, in that space where their bodies and their erections met. It was beautiful to look at John, who was looking at them both, and then because John's expression was one of such awe and longing, Sherlock followed his gaze until _he_ was also looking at the join where they came together. He liked the image and thought that he would like it even more if he lowered his body, just so, until their erections were touching. The sensation made John look up again, towards Sherlock's face, and they smiled at each other.

_John's a doctor,_ Sherlock thought. _You need to tell him. He'll be worried about it. _But he didn't want to spoil the mood. _And you need to ask him, too. You should have asked him last night, before you put your mouth around him. Even if you think he would have said something then. You need to ask him. Now._

"John," Sherlock said, evidently with some distaste, "I know that this is _not_ the right time to ask you this, but –"

"I've been tested, Sherlock. Recently, and few months ago. You?"

"Three months ago. And I've been on my _best_ behaviour ever since." He smiled wickedly at John. "No sex, no drugs."

"That explains why you haven't been going out alone at night," John said. It touched him more than he could say to know that Sherlock might have planned this, in those months when John had despaired of them ever getting closer.

"I needed to make sure," Sherlock said, "that I wasn't just feeling a temporary urge to seduce my flatmate. I thought that if I waited three months, I'd have time to think it over."

"Seems to me that you might have made yourself even hornier in the process," John pointed out. "Though I'm not complaining."

"There's more than one way to skin a cat," Sherlock said dryly, raising an eyebrow. John laughed.

"Indeed. As there's more than one way to get where we're going, right now."

Sherlock flipped over so that he was lying on his left side, bringing John to lie face-to-face with him. "There are benefits to your sinistrality," he noted, as he reached down to take John's penis in his fingers. John laughed when he understood what Sherlock meant; the way that they were facing each other, their dominant hands were free to touch the other's body. John gripped Sherlock in reciprocal fashion, lightly running his hands over Sherlock's shaft and glans.

"Do you know, I still feel like a kid who has got to third base," John said, laughing. "Though there is _nothing_ childish about this." He propped his head on his right hand as he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock. As they kissed, John loosened his hand on Sherlock's cock to bring it around to the other man's buttocks, pulling them even closer together. The heat of their chests pressing against each other was incredible; it reminded John of how much he had missed the feel of another body against his. He was a sensual man, fascinated with bodies and sensations and desires, and he did not like going for so many months without sex. In all of his mad yearnings for Sherlock over the past two years, John had almost managed to convince himself that Sherlock was some kind of ethereal _wunderkind, _beyond such trivial matters as sex and food and sleep. But with Sherlock's warm body in his arms, John could not deny that this man was just as passionate, and just as human, as John himself.

"There's something that could make this easier," Sherlock said, pulling back from John. "I'll be right back." He rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom, as John watched with delight. Sherlock from the back was a spectacular vision: his lean, muscular back and thighs, and that tight arse – _oh, that **arse**_**, **John thought. _What I would do to –_

His thoughts were cut off by the sight of Sherlock walking back to him, fully erect, with a tube of lube in one hand.

"Since neither of us are equipped with natural lubricant," he said sardonically.

"Thank you for the anatomy lesson," John quipped. "Now get back here, and let me get to work on you!" Sherlock lay back down, facing John again, as John rubbed some lube between his palms to warm it. Then he touched Sherlock again, with his slick fingers, and Sherlock bucked against him, gasping out "John!"

"I love seeing you like this," John said. "You are so passionate, Sherlock. You have so much to give. And I love knowing that I can make you feel good, that I can make you—"

"John!" Sherlock cried out. "You – you – are – the one – who – is _good_." He panted out the words; the feel of John's fingers had brought him to a dangerous point and he could not think clearly.

"I love it when you close your eyes like that, Sherlock. I love it when you hold me, like you are doing now. I love it –" John abruptly stopped his litany of loves – a list he had created because he felt that it was too early to talk of 'love,' even if they had talked of being 'lovers', and so he named the things he loved _about_ his lover, instead – to watch Sherlock, who was now mouthing silent words.

John had found a rhythm that Sherlock seemed to like: he held his hand loosely around Sherlock's penis, running it up and down the shaft, pausing at the head to rub his thumb over Sherlock's foreskin and the sensitive tip beneath. Now Sherlock's body had gone tight, and Sherlock fell over on his back, in the same vulnerable position that John had assumed the night before – face up, torso and legs exposed, his very centre open and ready for John's touch. John kneeled above him, continuing to rub his hand over Sherlock as he leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock turned his head away – "Too much – too – much – stimulation" – and bit softly onto John's good shoulder. John could feel the tension rising in Sherlock, could feel it in the way Sherlock arched his back and clutched at the sheets beneath him. His toes curled under and his head fell back as John gave one last, firm tug and Sherlock at last reached that elusive, ecstatic place.

John expected Sherlock to close his eyes and rest, or better yet, to pull John close to cuddle, but Sherlock surprised him when he wrestled John around so that John was now lying on his back, and Sherlock was on top. Before John had quite realized what had happened, Sherlock had lube in his fingers, and those long fingers were now firmly around John, mirroring the motions that John had just performed on him.

"You like it a bit loose, don't you?" Sherlock asked. "I can tell by the way you got me off, just now. You want my hand to stay a bit loose, so I don't pull on your foreskin – my mistake yesterday – and then you like a steady rhythm, with a few pauses here and there so that I…Yes, I'm right. You like that, John. You like it _just_ like that. And what about your balls? You seemed to like what I did to you yesterday. I want you to like it again. I want to find out _everything_ that you like. I want you to show me, when you touch me, how _you_ want to be touched."

"Sherlock –" John began. "Kiss me. Keep doing what you were doing with your hands, and kiss me."

Sherlock obeyed instantly, leaning down to claim John's mouth. John moved his tongue eagerly across Sherlock's lips, urging him to hasten the pace of his fingers below.

And then, when Sherlock moved his mouth down John's neck, and across to his scarred shoulder, John was done. He screamed Sherlock's name as he dug his fingers into Sherlock's back, clenching as if for dear life, willing him on. And Sherlock's fingers did not stop. Even though John thought that he had arrived, thought that the orgasm was beginning, it hadn't begun quite yet, not until Sherlock sucked gently on his scar. And then it came over him, or, rather, _he_ was coming, trembling and aglow underneath Sherlock, holding on to his lover – _lover!_ – with all his might and praying that he might keep this man in his life, somehow, as long as Sherlock would have him.

Then they lay back together in a sweaty heap, kissing each other's mouths as John came down from his climax. John's senses were blown open: every caress from Sherlock made him tremble anew, until he finally pushed himself away from Sherlock, gripping the other's hand as he lay back against the bed and caught his breath again.

"Good?" Sherlock asked, turning on his side once more to watch John. He ran his hands lightly over John's chest, avoiding the sensitive nipples. Sherlock gently traced the outlines of John's ribs, then skimmed downwards towards to draw circles around his navel. It tickled, but John did not protest. Just lying there with Sherlock, in the aftermath of sex, John felt happier than he ever had hoped to be.

"You are so beautiful, John," Sherlock said, continuing to admire John's body with his hands and eyes. "You are so small and perfectly shaped. All of your proportions are correct. I can't get over just _looking_ at you."

John laughed. "If I had known that you would be such an appreciative lover, Sherlock…" he began.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's true, John. I wonder if I could prove this. Da Vinci determined the perfect proportions for man; what the ratio of the thigh to the calf should be, or the head to the body. What if we measured you to see how you compare?"

John laughed again, a big hearty laugh that shook his ribs. "No, thank you, Sherlock. I'm perfectly content with being an ordinary man. And you're not difficult to look at, either." John rolled over to kiss Sherlock lightly on his mouth.

"I am too long and thin," Sherlock complained. "I am like one of Giacometti's statues, all stretched out and ghastly."

"You are not ghastly," John stated plainly. "You have your own proportions, and you are fucking gorgeous. Don't give me that 'too tall and thin' nonsense."

Sherlock sighed. "Are we to belong to the Club of Mutual Adoration?" he asked. John giggled.

"That's one way to put it," he said. "Or we can just say that we're crazy about each other, and there's an end to it."

"There's never an end to it," Sherlock said softly. "I mean, I don't want there to be an end to _this_." He pulled John closer to him. John, moved beyond words, did not respond, and Sherlock began to worry that he had said something wrong. "Is this too early to say that?" he asked. "In a relationship, I mean?"

John pulled Sherlock to him, cradling him in his arms. For all that the detective was so worldly, so hardened to crime and other misdeeds, he had little first-hand experience with the nobler sentiments, and John was flattered that _he_ might be the one to help Sherlock find the better angels of his nature.

"It's not too early, if you mean it," John said. "If not – then I'd rather you didn't say anything at all."

"Of course I mean it," Sherlock said snappishly. "I wouldn't be here with you if I didn't mean it."

"Well, that's a relief," John said. "Because I like this all a bit _too _much for this to be just a matter of convenience. And I was serious when I said that you'd regret playing with my heart, if you weren't serious about it." He grinned. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get up and get dressed. Surely there is something else that you want to show me in this big city before it's time for the ball tonight."

"The _ball_," Sherlock groaned. "How could I forget? Mycroft will be there."

"Is that a problem?" asked John. He thought for a moment. "Oh. Mycroft. He'll never let us live it down if we dance together tonight."

"I'm not passing up on the opportunity to dance with you," Sherlock said. "I would just rather it weren't in the presence of my meddlesome brother."

"Your brother has other things to think about besides you, Sherlock," John reminded him. "World peace, for one."

Sherlock grunted. "If he spent half as much time spying on terrorists as he does spying on us, then we'd all be a lot safer."

"Why don't we go as a couple, despite it all, Sherlock? That's what he's been teasing us about for years. Let him think what he's going to think. He's the one who will look like a heterosexist pig if he makes a big fuss about it in public."

"He would hardly do that," Sherlock said. "He's nothing if not image-conscious."

"Then let's make sure he never has a chance to speak to us alone. That shouldn't be hard, seeing as he appears besotted with the Ambassador."

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"I have my sources."

"You continue to astound me, my dear doctor Watson."

"I hope I never become _too_ predictable, Mr. Holmes. Now, let me show you that new jumper I bought. Black cashmere. You'll like it."

"Only if you promise that I get to take it off you later," Sherlock said.

"With what other purpose would I put it on?" John laughed. "And I want to see you in something other than a suit for once. Don't you have a pair of jeans tucked away in that enormous suitcase of yours?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "But I don't want to distract you _too_ much." He grinned.

"You arrogant sod," John said. "Go on, try and distract me."

"Is that a challenge?"

"You bet."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Nota bene<em>****: Thanks to a few awesome PM convos and reviews from some of you (haveacreamteaonme, lastew, I-am-the-Wolf, SeenaC, SkyfullofStars, thedaringkurtsie,CKerased, tsukinoblossom, ContntlBreakfst, Zarra Rous, CarefulSteps, Pilikia18, Blue TARDIS Everdeen, I'llbeyourPatronus, CaptainBetty, Khorazir), I have been thinking a lot about eroticism and what, exactly, makes a literary scene _sensual_ rather than just pornographic. **

**I've always been fascinated by sex – who isn't? – and I've been lucky to have been able to study sex and sexuality in my academic research, but it's a different thing altogether to figure out what is sensual to _me_, and to my readers, than to administer a survey about sexual behaviour to a bunch of strangers. ****J**

**For me, it's important to portray the emotional connection between the characters, even more so than the physical connection. I'm tired of reading "put Slot A into Slot B" sex scenes and I'm trying my best to do something different here. I'm also aware that slash is not everyone's cuppa, but my goal isn't to write smut, it's to write a love story with a lot of sex. To the extent that I've accomplished this, or not, I'd like to know. **

**Sex is such an important part of a relationship, and it can express so much between two people, that I think it's a worthy topic of literary exploration. That's why I think D.H. Lawrence's work said something really original, for his day and age, and also for ours. Sensuality is something that has been lost, or overlooked, in our hypermedic society. I think that words can evoke mental imagery that is even more powerful than visual depictions of sex, such as pornography or centrefolds. And what's more, in literature, we can hear what is going on in the thoughts of the characters. The brain is the most powerful sexual organ, after all! That, for me, is much more erotic than simply seeing a couple of people 'going at it' on the big screen. Not to mention, I hate how film depictions of sex are always abbreviated, and unrealistic. When the partners are heterosexual, it's usually a vision of sex that is male-oriented, where after just a few minutes of penetration (under the sheets, of course), both partners arrive at an orgasm at the same time. What a fantasy! No one ever has to stop to go find a condom or lube, no one ever says 'Hey, that doesn't feel good," there is little negotiation or exploration of what each of them like, what works for _them_. So while my sex scenes may not be ideal, I do strive to make them realistic, as realistic as they can be, given that I am a woman who is writing about two men. **

**There is more to come, but with these last two chapters being so long (I didn't want to break up the bedroom scenes), I may wait a few days before posting again. As always, your comments and PMs are much appreciated.**

**Emma**


	10. Pax IX

Pax IX

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when John came out of the bedroom, prepared to show off his new black sweater to the detective.

"Good. You're dressed," Sherlock said, scarcely glancing up from his phone. "There's been a bomb scare. The police are interrogating a suspect who may have tried to plant a car bomb outside of the U.N. this morning."

John stared at him. "Where are we going?"

"To meet with Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Are you coming?"

John knew it was pointless to protest; despite the recent revelations in their personal lives, he didn't expect Sherlock to stay in hiding while Mycroft investigated a case.

"Yes, I'm coming. But you have to tell me more about this case. I'm tired of being kept in the dark, Sherlock."

"I'll fill you in during the cab ride," Sherlock said.

"Where are we meeting Mycroft? At the U.N.?"

"The place will be crawling with police and fire trucks and the press. We're going to the Frick."

"What's the Frick? A hotel?"

"A museum," Sherlock clarified. "Mycroft told us to meet him in the inner courtyard, next to the fountain." He put his phone in his pocket and stood, straightening his shirt as he did so. John was pleased to see that, while Sherlock had kept the suit jacket, he was wearing a pair of tight, dark jeans, as he had promised.

"Well, then, let's be off," John said.

* * *

><p>They climbed into a cab and Sherlock was about to open his phone when John put a hand over his and said, "Time for you to let me know what's going on. I don't like this. Is there a Moriarty connection?"<p>

"Perhaps." Sherlock looked out of the window.

"That's not good enough, Sherlock."

"I'll tell you what I know but there's still a lot to work out."

"Go on."

"We successfully tracked down the arms shipment that went lost in Colombia several years ago."

"Are these terrorists using _guns?_" John asked, surprised.

"No, but by tracing some guns that ended up in Pakistan, we learned who bought the rest of the shipment. It went missing ten years ago. What happened ten years ago, John?"

"Uh, 9/11?"

"Right. 2001: beginning of the so-called 'War of Terror.' Meant increased U.S. interest in tracking and infiltrating terrorist organisations. But don't forget, England had been dealing with home-grown terrorists for years before Al Qaeda came to the Cousins' attention."

"The IRA," John whispered.

"Yes. In 2001 there were two IRA bombings in England: the BBC bombing in March, and the Ealing bombing in August. Both before September 11th. Obviously."

"Are you saying that there is a connection between the missing arms shipment and the bombings in England?"

"Yes, there is a connection. The arms went missing in January '01. The first bombing was in March."

"Do you think Moriarty was involved in all of this? An Irish connection?"

"I don't _think_ he was involved, John. I _know _he was involved. He didn't leave much of a paper trail, but CIA interviews around the time of the Good Friday agreement, several years earlier, suggested a possible link between the missing arms shipment, several prominent Dublin families, and Sinn Fein."

"In Dublin? Really? Which families? Moriarty?"

"That would be rather _too_ obvious, wouldn't it? No, the link is to a certain McGuinness family, among others."

"I don't see the connection."

"Moriarty's maternal grandmother was a McGuinness."

"Ah hah. But, Sherlock – those arms went missing _ten years ago_. Don't tell me that they're still circulating. They must have been sold to Kosovan rebels or Chechnyan paramilitary groups by now."

"It's not those exact arms that MI-6 and the Americans are trying to find. It's the paper trail that is more interesting to them."

"How so?"

"It looks like those bombings in 2001 may have been an initiation rite for Sinn Fein."

"Meaning?"

"A test for new members. To prove their loyalty and cunning, that sort of thing. But these kinds of bombings can't be carried out by one person alone. So, even if Moriarty were involved, he had to be working with others at the time. There would be one person who would buy the explosives from the source – in this case, the U.N. arms shipment bound for Bogotá. That person would be in charge of money transfers, tracking the shipment, on-the-ground operations in Colombia, that kind of thing. We think Moriarty was involved at that point. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty, he doesn't like to leave a trail. But only a few people at the time had the computer know-how to break into the U.N. database and track the shipment as it left Savannah, Georgia, entered Colombia at Barranquilla, and was loaded onto a truck bound towards Bogotá."

"So far, so good. I think. And then what happened?"

"We know that the shipping container was unloaded in Barranquilla, but after that the trail gets messy. This week, we finally worked out that, instead of heading to Bogotá, as planned, the driver took a detour to Cartagena, the old port city. Port security isn't as strict at Cartagena as at Barranquilla, so it's an ideal place to re-route a dangerous package. We believe that at this point the container was loaded onto another ship there, bound for Jamaica and falsely labelled as a banana shipment. And from Kingston, the same container – which we were able to track through the records – was inventoried as carrying fruit and sent directly to Dublin."

"So far, I'm following. But I still don't understand the connection to Moriarty."

"Moriarty was on the ground in Colombia, under a false identity. One 'Billy Craig,' posing as an American tourist, spent a week at a resort in Cartagena. Oh, here we are. I'll tell you the rest later. Come along." Sherlock handed the cabbie a twenty and he and John scrambled out of the car.

The cab left them outside a large mansion on Fifth Avenue, in one of the most affluent blocks in New York's Upper East Side.

"Mycroft's here already?" John asked as they entered the museum's lobby.

"Maybe not. We're a bit early," Sherlock said. "Go buy us tickets. I'm going to find the loo."

John waited in the queue while Sherlock made his way down a wide marble staircase to the basement. He passed on the door to the men's room, and instead made his way to another door, unmarked, which opened as he approached.

Sherlock entered a large room filled with television screens showing different areas of the museum. He nodded to the two guards who were stationed there and quickly scanned the screens, verifying that someone dressed as Father Christmas was indeed standing near the indoor fountain.

"When did he arrive?" Sherlock asked.

"Forty minutes ago," one of the guards said.

"Did he provide identification?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But something didn't match. You said that his eyes were blue. This man's were brown. We have him under surveillance."

"Brown?" Sherlock frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Why didn't you inform me earlier?" He thought of John, above, buying tickets. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, but there was no signal in the museum's basement.

"I'm surprised you caught that detail," he noted. "Thank you." _This woman is wasted as a museum security guard, _he thought. He took another look at her. There was the telltale curly cable leading up the back of her neck; she was planted with a microphone and earpiece. She noticed him observing her and smiled, putting her hand out to introduce herself.

"I'm Amanda Barreiro," she said in a broad Queens accent. "Federal Agent," she clarified. "And this is Jimmy Heinz, CIA."

"A pleasure to meet you both," Sherlock said in his poshest voice. "May I see the sales booth?" he asked, pointing to one of the screens. "My partner is buying tickets." She flipped through the channels until it showed an overhead shot of the queue in the lobby. He could see John handing a bill to the ticket agent; nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Call the ticket booth," he directed. "Instruct the woman to tell him to come downstairs to the toilets." She made the call and Sherlock watched on the screen as the ticket agent leaned over the desk to speak with John. Then John nodded and turned, walking out of the lobby and off the screen. Sherlock opened the door to the security chamber and waited for John to come down the stairs. He waved him over and John joined them in the small room.

"This is Amanda Barreiro," Sherlock said. "She's a Federal Agent and she knows all about the case. Ms. Barreiro, this is my partner, Dr. John Watson. Former British Army, special forces."

"Err—Sherlock. I was an army doctor, not special forces."

Sherlock turned his gaze towards him.

"We'll discuss this later, John." To the others, he said, "As I said, my partner, Dr. Watson, former special forces. John, this is Jimmy Heinz. CIA." Sherlock turned to Ms. Barreiro and continued, "Is everything in place?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"And my 'brother'?"

"The man pretending to be your brother is standing next to the angel statue in the courtyard. Handing out candy canes to the children." She pointed to another screen.

"Father Christmas?" John asked. "Is that the disguise that Mycroft came up with?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Only this isn't Mycroft. That's the problem."

"Who is it, then? And where's Mycroft?"

"I wish we knew," Sherlock said. "It's just like him, too. He always _had_ to be the centre of attention at Christmas."

"It's hardly his fault if someone kidnapped him, Sherlock. But what do we do now? Go in after the bloke?"

"That's one possibility. Or we can wait here and gather more information."

The CIA agent spoke. "We have back-up outside, on Fifth Avenue, Park, and both cross-streets. Just in case."

Sherlock glared at him. "You have back-up. But you couldn't stop this man" – he waved at the screen – "from impersonating my brother?"

No one responded. John shrugged, as if to say, "He's always like this." Sherlock's arm brushed against John's side; they stood closely together, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Do we know who the imposter is?" John asked.

"No," the agents said at once.

"And why doesn't someone just go up there and ask him?" The four of them looked at each other.

"He could be armed, John," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"She said we had back-up," John pointed out, nodding at Ms. Barreiro. "Could we get a SWAT team in here?"

"I'll have to ask my superior," she said. "See what she recommends."

Sherlock interrupted. "Tell her that a high-ranking MI-6 officer is missing. Tell her that we need a SWAT team in the museum. Tell her that the British Ambassador will let the press know that the CIA and FBI stood by while a British intelligence officer went missing. Tell her to send in reinforcements—_now_. But don't clear the museum just yet."

The Agent spoke into her receiver. "Did you catch that, Andromeda? We need a SWAT team here. ASAP. Santa Claus is an imposter." She smiled despite herself and turned towards Sherlock. "They'll be here in less than ten minutes."

"Secure the exits," Sherlock commanded. "Make sure that no one enters or leaves the museum until the SWAT team arrives."

"Done. Mr. Holmes-"

"Quiet! I'm thinking."

They waited in tense silence for a minute. Sherlock anxiously scanned the television monitors.

"Which room is that?" he asked, pointing to a screen.

"The Oval Room," Heinz said. "It connects to the garden courtyard."

"How many other ways are there to get into the courtyard?"

"There's the Oval Room, the East Gallery, the Music Room, and the entrance hall. They all have open passages connecting to the Garden Courtyard." Heinz handed Sherlock a floor plan of the museum.

Sherlock examined the plan as he paced in the narrow space, muttering to himself. "Passageway to Oval Room, right to East Gallery." He looked and spoke to John. "We have to seal off the entrance hallway. That's the most important thing. And then we have to force him into the East Gallery. There are no windows there – are there other means of egress?" He addressed this question to Heinz.

"None."

"Good. So, we have to create some kind of distraction, make sure he moves into the East Gallery."

"What kind of distraction?" John asked.

As if on cue, strobe lights began to flash in the security lounge. A loud siren sounded through the building.

"DAMN!" Sherlock shouted. "He got to it before we could. Keep your eyes on the screens," he instructed Heinz. "Barreiro, John – we're going up there!"

"Are you nuts, Sherlock?" John asked. "We're not armed, and he might be."

"We can't risk letting him go."

Barreiro interrupted. "I brought something for each of you." She knelt on the floor and opened a case, containing two revolvers.

"Is this legal?" John asked. "Giving a gun to foreign nationals?"

She laughed. "You're in the United States, Dr. Watson. Just about anyone can carry a gun here." She paused. "But more importantly: does _he" – _nodding to Sherlock – "know how to use one?"

"Of course I know how to handle a gun," he sneered at her. "I've grown up hunting and shooting."

"This isn't a fox hunt, Mr. Holmes," Heinz interjected. "We need to know – can you manage this kind of weapon?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Give me the gun. I know how to use it."

"I'll vouch for him," John said, remembering the afternoons they had spent at the shooting range, after the incident at the pool. _Just in case,_ Sherlock had said.

She handed them the weapons and turned to Heinz. "I'm not letting them go up there alone. Keep watch down here, try to follow Santa and tell me where he's going."

"Wait," Heinz said. "Look _here_." He pointed to a screen. "Now there's another Santa in the courtyard. And two in the Oval Room."

"Where did they come from?" Barreiro asked. "And why aren't the guards clearing the areas?"

"Those aren't the guards," Sherlock said, realisation dawning on him. "Yes, they are," she insisted. "We had them cleared ahead of time."

"They're thieves," Sherlock said. "Not terrorists. Look, there's another one in the living hall. That's where Bellini's St. Francis is shown, and the two Holbeins. Must be the most valuable room in the entire museum. My _God_ – how did I not see this earlier? Seal the exits. _Let no one out of the museum. _Check the monitors –"

Each screen flashed with static.

Sherlock clenched his fist in anger. "We're too late. They used a scrambler. John, come with me."

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John blocked the door with his body, glaring up at the detective.

"Let's just say that we were at the right place at the wrong time. And good thing, too. They're thieves, John. Simple art thieves. Dressed as Father Christmas and museum guards. Get out of the way."

"And Mycroft?"

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. "He sent a message half an hour ago. It must have come through before they turned on the scrambler. He said he would be late."

"So – nothing happened to Mycroft?"

"Unfortunately, no. Come _on_, John, let me get through."

"What are we going to do?"

"Catch them, of course. If the SWAT team doesn't get to them first! Oh, this is turning out to be a very happy Christmas, indeed!"

John looked at Barreiro. "Where is the SWAT team now?" he asked.

"My transmitter isn't working," she said. "But they must be close now. It's been at least 10 minutes since they were called."

"Sherlock," John said, still blocking the door. "This isn't your case."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, let the agents and the SWAT team deal with this. We still have to find Mycroft."

"Mycroft's not _missing_, John, he is just being himself. Arriving late so that others have to wait for him. Makes him feel important. He's probably outside the museum at this very instant, sitting in an armoured vehicle and watching the back-up charge in."

"That sounds like a very good place for him to be right now," John said, putting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "And I think we're just where we need to be, too. Don't you agree?" He looked at Barreiro and Heinz. They nodded.

"Back-up will take care of this. Those crooks will have _no_ idea what's coming to them." Heinz laughed. "They thought they were performing a simple heist, and we called in a SWAT team. Nice timing, guys."

John stood firm at the door, pushing Sherlock away when he attempted to pass him. In frustration, Sherlock turned and kicked the opposite wall.

"Some people have _all_ the fun," he sulked.

"Give me the gun, Sherlock," John said.

"No," Sherlock whined, his back against the wall.

"_Give me the gun_," John said more firmly. "It's not yours."

"Fine," Sherlock said, sliding down the wall to crouch on the floor, his arms around his knees. He dropped the gun to the floor and John swiftly bent down and secured it, handing it to Barreiro.

"My apologies," he said. "He, uh, he likes excitement."

"I can see that," she said. "Any reason why he hasn't joined Her Majesty's Secret Service?" John blinked at her. "That's where the adrenaline junkies usually go. There, or the armed forces. But you would know about that, wouldn't you?"

John stared at her for a second, then laughed. "You're good," he said. "Very good. But Sherlock already has a job. As a consulting detective." In a softer voice he added, "There isn't enough room in the Service for two Holmes brothers."

"Well, if he ever decides to jump ship and come to America," she began, "we'll always put in a good word." She turned to Sherlock. "As long as you're on your best behaviour."

"I'm afraid this _is_ his best behaviour," John said. Sherlock looked up at him from where he was crouching.

"John," he said. "I _know_ Moriarty is involved in this. Somehow."

John sighed. "You don't know that, Sherlock."

"He _must_ be. It's another art crime. Remember the last time? The Czech gallery owner? There was art theft involved there."

"I'm surprised that I am the one to remind you of this, but it wasn't an art theft. It was a clever forgery," John said.

"There's a connection here. There _has_ to be. That forgery was supposed to be a Vermeer. The Frick has two of them. What if—"

"You don't know that there's a connection," John said. "You're just guessing. And I'd rather you didn't risk your life trying to prove it. We'll go up after they've cleared the area out. You can poke around and see what evidence there is."

"That's not the same thing," Sherlock whined.

"No, it's not, but you're not risking your life just to chase after a thief in a Father Christmas costume. There are better ways to die, Sherlock." He grinned down at his friend and offered his hands. Sherlock took them and John pulled him upright. "I'll make it up to you later," John promised.

"How so?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sure I'll think of something that doesn't involve guns or paintings," John joked. "Besides, if you don't behave, I won't give you your Christmas present."

"That's not fair!" Sherlock protested, stepping closer to John, who stood his ground.

"No, it's not," John said. "But who said I had to play fair?"

"You always play fair," Sherlock pointed out.

"And you never do. So there's an end to it. Let's wait until communication is restored. And then we'll see about getting out of here and finding Mycroft."

"And my present?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll get your present, Sherlock."

"It had better be worth my while." Sherlock's voice had turned husky, and John was suddenly reminded of two things: one, that Sherlock was very attractive, and two, that they were not alone in the security lounge. He cleared his throat and pointedly looked at the two agents.

"Oh, it's certainly worth your while," John said. "That's exactly it." They smiled at each other. "And if you're extra good today, I'll give you the first _and_ last dance tonight."

"You would give them to me anyway."

"I would, wouldn't I? I'm such a fool."

Sherlock looked intensely at him. He wanted to say, _And I'm a fool for you. _But they weren't alone. It was the wrong time and the wrong place. Would it always be like this on cases together? Would he always want to tell John how much he cared about him? And would John always stop him from rushing into the thick of things?

Sherlock phone buzzed; communication had been restored. He checked his messages. There was a text from Mycroft.

"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Mycroft went to the wrong museum. He's at the Morgan Library. That _idiot__. _I specifically told him the Frick." John laughed and put a hand to his head.

"What has he been doing all this time?"

"Looking at Dickens' manuscripts, most likely, and fending off school children who want Father Christmas's autograph," Sherlock surmised. "He still wants to meet us. For lunch at the Plaza. Shall we?" He turned towards Barreiro and Heinz. "As soon as we're safe to leave, of course," he hedged, when he saw John glaring at him.

Barreiro grinned. "Looks like you're safe to go. I've let the teams above know you'll be coming out the front entrance. Just don't linger." She paused. "I hope we meet again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." John nodded at her, but Sherlock was already striding out of the door.

"If Mycroft is still wearing that _ridiculous_ costume when we meet up at the Plaza, I'll tell Barreiro that one of the thieves got away."

"You wouldn't!" John said, as he chased Sherlock up the stairs.

"Oh, wouldn't I!" Sherlock cackled.

Before they had walked more than a couple of blocks away from the museum, John had already sent a warning to Mycroft_._

_No Santa. Duly noted. MH_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Nota bene:<strong>_** More case material here, for thisisforyou. And here we have them at the Frick, as promised, and as requested by syncsister (thanks for reminding me about the Bellini). **

**I'm still open for requests, so keep 'em coming!**

**~Emma **__


	11. Pax X

Pax X

They had only walked a few blocks down Fifth Avenue before Sherlock became aware that they were being tailed by a black SUV with tainted windows.

"Someone is following us," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Keep walking. There's an entrance to Central Park in a few blocks. We need to cross the street first."

"Shouldn't we make a run for it?" John asked.

"Not necessarily. I want to take down the license plate number." The car came to a halt at a stoplight. Sherlock and John crossed the street, directly in front of it, heading towards the park.

The back window in the SUV slid down and a man with a red and white cap peaked out, calling to them.

"Sherlock! Dr. Watson!" The men turned, startled.

"Isn't he supposed to be downtown?" John asked Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock said, walking towards the car. "There's something off here, something I'm missing. Come, John."

Mycroft opened the door and they hopped into the vehicle before the traffic light changed. The back seat of the car was just large enough for the three of them; John, being the smallest and unrelated to either, naturally sat between them. He was amused to see that Mycroft, indeed, was dressed as Father Christmas. "It suits you," he said to Mycroft, pointing at the costume.

"I rather thought so myself," Mycroft drawled. "Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson. Happy Christmas, little brother."

"We don't have time for this," Sherlock said. "Mycroft – what are you doing here?"

"I thought we said we'd meet at the Frick at noon. When I got there, the museum was blocked off and several armoured vehicles were stationed outside. No doubt you are aware of all this, Sherlock."

"You were _late_," Sherlock hissed.

"My apologies, dear brother. A minor alteration to my costume detained me."

"If you didn't buy your clothes a size too small, you wouldn't have this problem," Sherlock said.

"While I thank you for your sartorial advice, I think there's a more pressing problem to solve." Mycroft smiled falsely. "What happened in the museum just now?"

Attempted heist," John said. "It was a complete coincidence that we were there."

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "It _wasn't_ an coincidence. Mycroft, you didn't go to the Morgan Library, did you?"

Mycroft shook his head, puzzled. "No. Why would you think that? We agreed to meet at the Frick, and we would have, had I not been unexpectedly delayed." Realisation dawned in his eyes. "Show me your phone, Sherlock." Sherlock handed it over.

Mycroft scrolled through the messages. "Good thing I happened upon you just now," he observed. He quickly dialled a number. "Good afternoon, police commissioner. This is Mycroft Holmes. I need you to send a team to intercept a suspect at the Plaza Hotel."

"I don't understand," John complained. "Can someone explain?"

Mycroft put a finger over his mouth, signalling John to hush. "Yes, Plaza Hotel. Dressed as Fath—Santa Claus…Yes, commissioner, I am aware that today is Christmas . . . Yes, I understand that Santa Claus is 'on the town' today, so to speak . . . I suggest you detain anyone in the Plaza who is dressed as Santa Claus . . . Warrant? I'm afraid I don't understand your pesky little procedures . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . No . . . Can't you find some way to close the entrances? . . . . Well, _get_ a warrant, for heaven's sake! You're the police commissioner! Can't you do _anything_? . . . . We're talking about a terrorist suspect. . . . You don't want another 9/11 on your hands, now do you? . . . Good. . . .Good. . . . Very good . . . I look forward to our next chat . . . Oh, and commissioner – Merry Christmas!"

"It's Him," Sherlock said. "He scrambled the signal and planted a fake message. So we would go to the Plaza and meet him there."

"Who? Moriarty?" John asked. "So – it _was_ just a coincidence that we were at the museum during the heist."

"_Not_ a coincidence," Mycroft announced, closing his mobile.

"You _knew_," Sherlock accused him. "You _knew_, and you were going to let us go in there without a clue…"

"Come, come now. You cannot expect me to believe that _you_ didn't know what could happen this morning. After all of our discussions with the Ambassador about the financial side of Moriarty's organisation?"

"Come clean, Mycroft, or I'll fly back to London tonight."

"Me too," John said. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him in puzzlement. "Sorry," John said. "I'll stay out of this."

"That may be for the best, Dr. Watson," Mycroft smirked. "Sherlock, whatever do you mean?"

"What were you planning this morning?"

"You know that I like to put my professional skills into practice from time to time. Despite what you believe, Sherlock, I haven't always worked behind a desk."

"You were there after all. You dressed as Father Christmas to confuse the thieves."

"Naturally."

At last, John understood. Or, at least he understood enough to grow very, very angry at Mycroft.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?" he said, turning to Mycroft and pinning him against the side of the car door, his forearm pressed under Mycroft's chin.

Sherlock cracked a small smile.

"Now, now, Dr. Watson, let's not get violent. Wouldn't want assault to go on your record, now would we?" Mycroft said hoarsely.

"It would be _aggravated_ assault," John said, releasing him. "You let us go in there without telling us what was going on."

"You were never in any danger, John," Mycroft said smoothly. "Barreiro and Heinz made sure of that."

"It's Dr. Watson to you," John growled.

"Dr. Watson. Please forgive me. Let me assure you that you and my brother were _never_ in any danger. We monitored the entire situation."

"I'm sure you did," John grumbled. "There were _children_ there, Mycroft. _Children._ Think about that next time you plan a sting operation and bring in a SWAT team."

"I believe it was my brother who called in the cavalry," Mycroft said.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "_What_ is going on here?"

"We almost prevented a major art crime," Sherlock explained. "But I'm assuming they got away with it? Mycroft?"

"It was decided to let the thieves go, yes. We hope they'll lead us to Moriarty."

"How?" John asked, still confused.

"When they try to exchange the masterpieces for Moriarty's product," Sherlock explained. "That's the deal that we've been following."

"Wait – are you saying that Moriarty is supplying terrorists with arms in exchange for the missing paintings?"

"Were they paintings that went missing, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "No statues? _Etchings_?"

"The theft was limited to paintings. The two Vermeers and the two Holbeins."

"And the Bellini?" Sherlock asked.

"Untouched," Mycroft confirmed.

Sherlock turned to John. "Yes, John. Moriarty agreed to sell the arms and explosives to an Al Qaeda splinter group in exchange for a number of masterpieces from the Frick. He undoubtedly already has a client who is willing to purchase the paintings from him on the black market. For a hefty sum, of course."

John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"This is such a complicated money trail," he said. "Mycroft, is this the kind of work you usually do?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, as Sherlock, at the same time, answered, "No." John looked from one to the other.

"So…you decided to follow the thieves to Moriarty? Why didn't you just stop the theft from occurring? The terrorists wouldn't be able to pay Moriarty, in that case."

"They would have found someone else to sell them the arms they needed," Mycroft said. "We couldn't risk them severing the connection with Moriarty."

"We _couldn't _take that risk, eh?" John was practically shouting. "Are you absolutely bloody nutters, Mycroft? Sherlock! You may have just facilitated a transaction between terrorists and an arms dealer! And what if we can't stop them?"

"Precisely what I said," Sherlock sighed.

"As I recall, Sherlock, you were pretty pleased at the idea that we might stop a terrorist attack _and_ tighten the noose on Moriarty."

"What I did _not_ countenance was letting them steal the real articles," Sherlock said.

"There wasn't time to replace them with replicas," Mycroft said lightly. "Moriarty would have noticed if the paintings were suddenly removed. And we couldn't replace _every_ piece of art in the museum just to prevent them from nabbing another."

"You could have closed the museum," John pointed out. "Was that never an option?"

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him in astonishment.

"That would have ruined the entire operation," Mycroft said. "As I have already explained, we needed to track the exchange between Al Qaeda and Moriarty. Which we will now be able to do, thanks to this morning's successful heist."

"OK, let me see if I have got this straight," John said. "While Sherlock and I were waiting for you the basement – which now I see was just a ruse to get us out of the way – someone connected to Moriarty just got away with _how_ many millions dollars or pounds worth of art?"

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him.

"The worth of those paintings is not estimable in common currency, John," Mycroft said patronisingly.

"I'm sure it's not," John said. "So let me speak more plainly: how many explosives can those paintings purchase? Enough to blow up Times Square? Enough to level the Brooklyn Bridge? Rockefeller Center?"

"Hypothetically…yes," Mycroft said.

"As well as several more key spots in the city, I would guess," Sherlock said. "What do you think, Mycroft – could they take down Grand Central? How about the Empire State?"

John put his hands over his ears. "Stop it, you two! Are you planning this city's destruction yourselves or are you going to stop it?"

Mycroft smirked. "Can't you call your bulldog off, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone, where he had been texting, and leaned across John to stare Mycroft in the eye.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked icily.

"I merely asked you if you could restrain Dr. Watson."

"I don't think that's what you said. And if you _did_ ask me to restrain him, that's even worse. But I should have known you'd say something like that; someone who has to kidnap John to spend time with him obviously doesn't know the least thing about him."

Mycroft's ears pricked up. "And what do you call this, this _trip_ to New York? Now, don't tell me he came _willingly_ and _fully informed,_ or did he?"

"He was perfectly willing," Sherlock said priggishly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "How satisfactory that must be. Tell me, Dr. Watson, how do you like the hotel that Sherlock picked out for you?"

"_THAT'S ENOUGH!"_ John shouted, flinging his arms out to both sides. "You, Mycroft, shut it. Right now. Sherlock, don't egg him on. I don't want to hear another word out of either of you until we get to – to – to wherever it is that we are going." The Holmes brothers were silent. There was a dangerous tone to John's voice. "Mycroft? Where are we going?"

"_You_, my dear Watson-"

"It's Dr. Watson to you," John reminded him.

"My dear _Doctor_ Watson," Mycroft began. "You will be going back to the Hudson Hotel, to rest and relax before tonight's ball at the United Nations."

"Oh, and I suppose I'm supposed to primp and preen while the two of you go gallivanting after Moriarty, is that it?"

"Don't be so juvenile, John," Sherlock drawled. "I'll be coming with you, of course." He winked. "There's nothing we can do for now about Moriarty."

"Oh, right," John said, exasperated for what was perhaps the fiftieth time that day. "Terrorists just stole four of the world's most valuable paintings and you two decide that we should spend the afternoon pretending we're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara." The Holmeses looked at him without recognition. "_Gone With the Wind,_" he reminded them. "Great American film. Ever seen it?"

"My, my, he's a bit _testy_ these days, isn't he?" Mycroft said to Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned forward and whispered something to the driver. The car pulled up to a traffic light and, a second later, Sherlock opened the door, swung his long legs out of the vehicle, and pulled John along after him. They were on the south side of Central Park, a few long blocks from their hotel. They began to run, all along the Park's walls, dodging people left and right, until they reached the fountain at Columbus Circle.

"Do you think he followed us?" John asked, panting and laughing at the same time.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But there's so much traffic that he's probably still back a few blocks." He laughed. "That felt good." He nodded fondly at John, struck with the sudden urge to hug him. _Not here not now not yet in public,_ Sherlock thought.

"The _wanker_," John ejaculated. "Can you tell me just one thing, Sherlock? Why are we still going to this dance tonight if Moriarty is out and about?"

"In case he shows up, John. Mycroft was serious about us going back to rest. It may be a long night."

"I think it would be a long night anyway," John said, more hopeful than flirtatious.

"We can always make a long afternoon of it," Sherlock said suggestively.

"Just what kind of rest and relaxation did you have in mind?" John asked, now catching on. "Mycroft . . . was he -? Does he think-?"

"I don't know, John, and to be honest, I don't bloody well care. I would have snogged you right there in the car if I hadn't thought it would give someone a heart attack."

"I'm not that easily frightened," John said, "not after living with you for two years." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. _Does he want me to – should I? Now? Out here?_

He leaned down and gripped John's upper arms, pulling him so close that their foreheads were almost touching. "May I?" Sherlock asked, before kissing John, ever so softly and ever so fleetingly, on the lips. And then Sherlock was striding away, heading across the Circle and towards the Hotel. John, still somewhat dazed from the car ride, and flustered by the kiss, jogged after him.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: <em>Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia below.<em>

It's January 1st and I am almost hesitant to post this after watching what was another brilliant episode from Moffat and Gatiss. They amaze me. And so does this fandom! I think that every relationship development that occurred in Belgravia was explored by one fanfic writer or another in the past year: John's string of girlfriends who all dump him because he's in a relationship with Sherlock; Sherlock the virgin, Mycroft the ice man; Sherlock deducing that Irene was aroused because of her pulse and dilated pupils; it goes on and on. Which makes me get very meta-analytical and think: is fanfiction an exploration of the degrees of freedom in a fictional universe? If so, are we watching a living example of the Infinite Monkey Theorum? (Among an infinite number of monkeys typing away at typewriters, eventually a work of Shakespeare will be produced.) Gosh, I need to go back and read some Borges here. I am feeling entirely too cerebral. Anyone else about to have a cerebral orgasm from the brilliance of this show? I know that my heart rate is elevated.

Oh – and I was so happy that the newspaper clipping in the show suggested a possible link between Moriarty and Al Qaeda. This is where I was going, folks…just another monkey with a typewriter.

One more thing: the story is continuing past the new year. So keep reading!

Feliz año,

Emma


	12. Pax XI & XII

Pax XI & XII

* * *

><p>When they got back to their suite, John had scarcely time to close the door before Sherlock gripped his shoulders and pushed him against wall. Sherlock had to bend his knees to be at level with John; all that touched were their foreheads and arms and then, before John knew was was happening, Sherlock was kissing him with a kind of urgency that he had not felt in the lazy love-making of that morning or in Sherlock's luxurious caresses the night before. Sherlock was breathing heavily, gasping for air in between kisses. His mouth flitted from John's mouth, to his eyebrows, to his cheeks and his nose, before settling again on John's mouth. John reached out to pull Sherlock closer, suddenly aware of the space that was gaping between them. He stood on his tiptoes and pulled Sherlock's head down towards him.<p>

"A bit eager, are we?" John said in a low voice.

"Yes." Sherlock kept kissing him. "You did promise me that I'd get to take off that jumper of yours." _Let's not talk, John,_ he thought. _Please, let's not talk now._ But John, it seemed, was a communicative sort of lover.

"Sherlock, you _do_ realize that if we keep up like this, we're going to wear each other out?"

"Not important," Sherlock said. John pulled back from him slightly. "I have plenty of stamina," he added.

John laughed. "Of course, this from the man who doesn't need to sleep or eat. Of course you would have stamina. But – Sherlock – I'm not going anywhere."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed against John's mouth.

"I should feel flattered," John said. "There's a case on and the only thing that interests you is getting some with me this afternoon."

"Not true," Sherlock said, his gray eyes gazing into John's brighter blues. John raised an eyebrow.

"Not true that there's a case on, or not true that you're only interested in getting some?"

"Neither are true. The case – that's a simple matter, really. Mycroft could have cleared it up for himself. I would hardly call it a _case_. More of a _consultation_, really."

"Fits the job description, at least," John joked. "Consulting detective." He smiled at Sherlock but Sherlock's face was still serious.

"I am not only interested in 'getting some' from you, John."

"Nice to know it's not all about my fit bod, then," John said. Sherlock cocked his head and observed him.

"You joke because you are nervous," he said. "Something I said has made you nervous." He narrowed his eyes. "What was it?"

"I – I – Sherlock – " John stammered. "It's a bit _normal_ to be nervous when your new - whatever you want us to call each other –"

"Paramour," Sherlock declared haughtily, pleased to have found the correct word. "You are my _paramour._"

"Good grief, you sound like a bad Victorian novel, Sherlock. I thought we established last night that we are lovers, for lack of a better term. But I am _**not **_your fucking paramour."

"Correct. We're not fucking," Sherlock said. "_Yet_." He drew out the final letter of the word, the tip of his tongue hitting his teeth with a soft exhale. John felt a shudder go through him as the '_t'_ reverberated in the spacious room.

"Aren't we?" he asked. "What exactly did we do this morning, then?"

"I believe some would call it 'getting some'," Sherlock said primly.

"Not fucking, then?"

"No."

"So it's only fucking if I let you penetrate me, is that what you think?"

"I wouldn't presume to be the one to top," Sherlock said. "But yes, that's what I meant."

"I didn't think you would subscribe to all that heteronormative bullshit," John said. "That it's only sex if there's a cock poking into some hole between the legs." He laughed despite himself. _In for a penny, in for a pound, John Watson,_ he thought. _Might as well have this kind of conversation right now._

"You're joking again," Sherlock observed, drawing back from him. "You're nervous." He turned away from John and walked slowly to the sofa, lazily dropping down onto it as he looked back up at John. Sherlock patted the cushion next to him and John hesitantly joined him.

John didn't respond, just sat next to Sherlock, barely touching him.

"Is there something wrong?" Sherlock asked, observing him intently. His eyes scanned John's face, looking for clues. John was usually so readable, but this afternoon – something was different. "You aren't usually hesitant to tell me to piss off," Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I don't want you to piss off, Sherlock. Just – let me get my bearings, all right? This is all happening rather quickly for me." Sherlock's face assumed a chilly neutrality as he struggled to not look affected by John's words.

_You __**idiot**_, Sherlock said to himself. _You're too much for John. You'll always be too much for John. He won't be able to take it – the intensity, the wild nights, your longing for more, __**more, MORE.**__Your selfishness and your tendency to – what was it Victor said? – fly too close to the sun. No wonder you liked Joyce and his Daedalus... But John hasn't seen me when things are really bad. He thinks this is 'too fast' but I have never moved in this direction before, how can I know which speed to take? The question is, how slowly can I bear to go? Lento and largo: out of the question. We're past Andante, past just walking side by side, the simple gait of companions. Allegro? Clearly that's too fast. Back off, Sherlock. Allegretto, then. Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, Second Movement: a lilting stride, a forward-moving pulse - but contained, always contained. Is that how he wants me? Contained? Holding back, perhaps, until the melody, repeating itself, builds higher and higher, louder and louder, until it reaches that incredible orchestral climax and all hell breaks loose. Allegretto, then. Allegretto, for John. No slower than that, or I will lose all sense of the structure of the piece. No faster, or he will scamper away, the Scherzo from Schumann's First String Quartet. 1999. Magdalene College, Cambridge. What was the name of the second violinist? Was rubbish, kept starting each measure with an up-bow. Not important now. _

"Sherlock?" John said. "Sherlock!" he repeated, when Sherlock did not heed him.

"Yes?" The detective turned to look at John. He wanted to reach out and touch him again, pull him close to him and promise that he would not move too quickly, but he thought that even that might be a bit much for John right now, John who clearly needed to say something to him.

"I am too much, John," Sherlock said, before John could get a word in. "I am too much for you. Is that right?"

John blinked, a bit startled at where they had ended up. One minute they were kissing against the wall – _and what was so bad about that?_ – John thought – and the next minute he was telling Sherlock they were moving too fast. _No wonder the bugger is confused,_ John said to himself. _I've been wanting this for ages, and as soon as he is ready and willing, I tell him we're moving too fast. But we are. God, we __**are. **_He blushed when he remembered what they had done to each other that morning, how they had lain facing each other and had brought each other to orgasm with their hands. He remembered the look of shock on Sherlock's face, as if he were completely taken by surprise. _Maybe he was surprised. At __**this**__, at us, at the intensity of it. It's almost too much –_

"It's not _you_ who is too much," John started. "It's – it's _us._ You and me. Together. It's as if whatever connection that we had before – no trivial bond, let me assure you of that – has just exploded." Sherlock frowned. "Not in a bad way, Sherlock. Like an exponential equation – each step forward in intimacy is three times more steps in intensity. Or something like that I don't know." He shook his head. "I'm not the one who thinks in numbers, Sherlock. You are." He smiled wryly and reached for Sherlock's hand.

Holding it in his lap, John brushed the soft pads of his fingers over Sherlock's left palm, running over the small scars on his wrists, noticing the rough calluses on his lover's fingers. He _observed_ now, because of Sherlock. What had Sherlock said to him, once? "_You see but you do not observe, John."_ When had John begun to observe, then? When did he notice, for example, that the hicky on Sherlock's neck was not a hicky at all, but a callus from holding his violin under his chin? When did he put two and two together and realize that it was not her strong constitution alone that allowed Mrs. Hudson to put up with heads in the fridge and CIA interrogations on a somewhat regular basis; she _must_ have had special training (Cold War? Six?). And when had John began to observe, as everyone else around him seem to do, that he and Sherlock certainly meant more to each than most flatmates? He had told himself that it was _not_ jealousy he felt when Sherlock met Irene Adler, it was _not_ jealousy that those two spoke a language of their own, the same tongue that Mycroft spoke, and Moriarty perhaps, whereas he was just John Watson, doctor and occasional blogger. _But if he was so insistent that he was not jealous of Irene, might that not mean something, too?_ Thus went the voice in his head. _The more you deny it, the truer it is. _Ella would have said the same thing, if he were still seeing her.

"I don't only think in numbers, John," Sherlock said softly.

"It's not that, Sherlock." John inhaled sharply. "It's just – you want everything, at once. Nothing is linear with you."

"Yes. I want _you_," Sherlock stated evenly.

"Well, in a relationship, it doesn't work that way. At least, not most of the time. You can't just go from being friends to – _wham!_ – being soul-mates. It takes time. And even if we're close already, this – this _relationship_ – is going to take some getting used to."

"And that's what you're doing now?" Sherlock asked, a bit anxiously. " 'Getting used' to us?"

"I suppose so, yes," John admitted.

"So, then – last night – did you not want that?" Sherlock sounded genuinely concerned.

"In this case, Sherlock, my body is moving faster than my brain."

"Not an uncommon occurrence in your case," Sherlock observed dryly.

"Shut it," John said, then quickly, "Sorry, Sherlock. Just – I don't need reminding right now that I'm supposed to be the beating heart, as if I didn't have a brain, too."

"Ah," Sherlock said, leaning back into the sofa cushions. John's hand was still stroking his fingers and it felt calming and arousing at once. "You think that we're a good match because I have a brain and you have a heart. Is that it? The mind/body division? _So_ Cartesian. Really, John, you must have had _some_ basic training in neuroscience. Mirror neurons, serotonin, right-brain right-brain connections."

"I don't think that we're good because you're the brain and I'm the heart," John said. "Quite the contrary, really. You have much more of heart than you like to let on. And I'm not as stupid as you make me out to be, either."

"Of course you aren't _stupid_, John."

"But nor am I 'moderately clever,' am I, Sherlock?" Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, holding it against the cushion.

"Ah, so _that's_ what this is all about. You don't think I think you're smart enough for me."

"I _know_ I'm not smart enough for you, Sherlock."

"And that worries you."

"Clearly." John folded his arms over his chest.

"It needn't," Sherlock said briskly. "You do know that I just said that to flatter her." He squinted at John. "Nice touch, though, listening through the door."

"It was in case you needed backup," John explained.

"What, to overpower an unarmed and naked woman?"

"Not just any woman, Sherlock. _The_ woman."

"Oh, so this is all about Irene, is that it? John, you're going to have to be clearer with me. I don't know how we got from me kissing you, to you telling me that things were too intense, to all this nonsense about Ms. Adler."

John stood and began to pace across the room.

"I'm never going to be smart enough for you, Sherlock," he said heatedly. "I'm never going to be able to feed that hungry brain of yours. You're going to get bored with me. With _us._"

Sherlock stood and, almost scrambling, made his way towards John. He gripped the doctor's wrists with his fingers, pulling down on them to keep John's attention focused on him.

"Look at me," Sherlock commanded. "Look at me. Look at _us._ You are not just a piece of warm flesh, or a heart that beats, or whatever else you fear you might be to me. You are _John_. You are my friend. And, if what happened last night and this morning matter _at all_ to you, then you will believe me when I say that I care about you. _Only _you, John."

John looked up, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's.

"She was killed," he said. "I lied to you. She was killed, and Mycroft wanted me to tell you that she was still alive, so that – so that –"

"So that I wouldn't die of a broken heart?" Sherlock asked scornfully. "He knew I wasn't in danger of _that_, John."

"But you _do_ have a heart, Sherlock," John protested.

"Of course I have a heart!" Sherlock snapped, tugging down again on John's wrists, his hands tightening almost painfully around his pulse point. "Don't confuse me with my brother. And that's not what I meant, anyway. Mycroft knew I wasn't in danger of dying from a broken heart, because _Irene is not dead_."

"That's not what Mycroft said."

"I know that may not be what Mycroft _said_ to you – now, let me imagine how the conversation went. Mycroft told you that Irene was dead, and then asked you to tell me that she had escaped to America instead? What, so that you would, I presume, _protect _me from my own grief? By telling me that she had escaped?"

"Yes," John admitted.

"John," Sherlock said slowly. "I have settled my score with Irene Adler. And there's no need for you to protect me from my feelings towards her." He pulled John close to him, wrapping him in his arms. "I'm here with you, aren't I? If Irene were in some witness protection programme here in America, and if I were in love with her or whatever foolish idea you've latched on to – do you think I would still be here with you?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "I can never tell, with you." He unwrapped himself from Sherlock's monkey grip and looked up at him, smiling despite himself. It was so nice, after all, to be the one in Sherlock's arms.

"And that's bothering you, too."

"Yes." John sighed.

"I had never pegged you as the jealous type, John." Sherlock laughed and kissed the top of John's head. "I thought _I_ had enough of that trait for the two of us."

John pulled away slightly, moving his head around in an exaggerated gesture, as if he were looking for something. "Did I hear correctly? Did Sherlock Holmes just admit to being a teeny bit, what was it, _jealous_? Possessiveis more like it!" He giggled.

Sherlock ducked down a few inches to catch John's mouth in his own. The wet feel of Sherlock's lips against his caught John off guard for a moment. "I am _incredibly_ possessive," Sherlock whispered. "And interested - in you. Only in _you_, John Watson." The taller man continued kissing him, intermittently pulling back to gaze at John's face. "And because I'm so possessive, John, and because I really _cannot_ wait any more – where is my Christmas present?"

John gave a throaty laugh. "I knew you wouldn't let me forget that," he said.

"I was sorely tempted to look through your luggage when you were sleeping last night, John," Sherlock admitted. He gave a slight jump, clasping his hands together. "I've been going through all of the possibilities in my head. What would a man – who has been enamored of me for months if not years, uncertain if I return his affection – give me as a present? It would have to be something personal, meaningful – but not _too_ personal, not too suggestive of his designs, lest I find him out…"

"Well, we all know what happened to Molly Hooper last year," John said dryly.

"But this is so _good_, John. A puzzle! What did you get me? You must have bought it for me before yesterday, because you haven't been out of my sight since the Guggenheim. So I have to be right in my assumption that it's nothing _too_ personal. But I hope you didn't get me anything so trite as a pair of cufflinks."

"Not cufflinks," John admitted, taking a step towards the bedroom. "But I didn't buy anything for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, trailing after John.

"Sherlock! Stay out of here. I'll bring you your present," John scolded him. Sherlock obediently stayed in the living room, not daring to cross the threshold of the bedroom while John was fetching his gift.

The doctor returned with a small box, wrapped in green and red paper. He handed it to Sherlock. "This is one of your presents."

"There are more?" Sherlock asked.

"One more," John said. "It's not the kind of present I could wrap."

"Oh, an _experience_," Sherlock exclaimed. "Lovely. Though I'd take John Watson wrapped, too. Just a suggestion for next year." He winked at John who, despite himself, blushed.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and stared at the box. "Nothing unusual about the paper. Frugal Scot, you used the same paper from last year! Mrs. Hudson wrapped all her gifts in this paper. So you wrapped this back at Baker Street." John nodded and joined Sherlock on the sofa. "And now, let me see…." Sherlock tore off the paper and found a thick hinged case, which he opened carefully. A gold pocket watch lay nestled among blue satin folds. Sherlock picked it up by it chain, spinning the watch so that it caught the glow of the afternoon sunlight.

"This recently came into my possession," John explained. "I wondered if you might tell me something about its owner."

Sherlock gazed at the face of the watch, then slid his hand along the edge of the face, looking for the miniscule hinge that would allow him access to the watch's inner works.

"There are hardly any data," Sherlock complained. "The watch has been recently cleaned."

"You are right," John said. "It was cleaned before being sent to me. You can hardly expect that I would give you a tarnished old watch, now would you?" He grinned at Sherlock. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Of course I may be mistaken, but I would judge that the watch belonged to Harry, who inherited it from your father."

"Because of the H.W. on the back?"

"Yes. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for a previous generation. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your sister, who, for some undecipherable reason, recently decided to gift it to you."

"Right, so far," John admitted. "Anything else?"

"Only that your father and Harry must have been alike in at least one regard," Sherlock said soberly. "He was very untidy and careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case, you notice that it is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. A man who treats a £5000 watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Rather like Harry and her phone."

"He was rather careless," John admitted. "But I had no idea the watch was worth so much."

"You didn't have it valued? I'm surprised, John. Feel the heft? It must be almost solid gold. Curiouser and curiouser."

"What else?"

"He was an alcoholic. Like Harry. Given how well you and your sister get along, and given your feelings about autotherapeutic narcotics usage, I am surprised if this item holds much sentimental value for you. But the look on your face says it does."

"Yes," John admitted. "He wasn't the first doctor to drink himself to an early death, you know. And he was a good man."

"You admired him. You became a doctor because of him."

"I loved him," John said. "He was a good man, and a good father. When I was young, before – before I went away to Uni. That's when the drinking got bad."

"And so, to restore some order to your life, you decided to join the army. Very predictable. And even though you were the only son, the one who followed in his footsteps, he still decided to give the watch to Harry."

"Because of her initials," John explained. "They had the same initials."

"But you could have easily added a 'J' in front of the 'H.W.' to form your own initials, and keep the watch for yourself. Yet you didn't. You decided to give me this watch. Very curious."

"What do you make of it, then?" John asked. "The fact that I gave it to you, that is."

"A watch is not quite so intimate as a piece of jewellery, of course, but a _family heirloom_ – now, is that the kind of present that one gives a flat mate? I think not. I think – what was the other present you were going to give me, John?"

"I'd like you to finish deducing this one, first," John said, nodding to the watch.

"I think you were going to give me the other present, perhaps as the only present. But you brought this one along, too. Clearly an intimate gesture, to give another man your father's gold watch. You wouldn't have done this if – if we hadn't –" Sherlock began to stumble on his words.

"Yes, I would have," John said. "At least, that was one possible outcome. Giving you the watch. As something to remember me by, something to remember our friendship."

"Because you were planning to leave Baker Street," Sherlock said softly.

"Yes," John admitted.

"And now?"

"Not leaving now," John said.

"Do you still want me to keep the watch?" Sherlock asked. "Knowing that it is worth so much?"

"The watch is yours, Sherlock. It's not the kind of thing that I could see myself using. It seemed more your style. You know, with your coat and everything." Sherlock smiled, rubbing his fingers over the worn casing of the watch.

"Thank you, John," he said. "I'm glad that you gave this to me. And I'm even gladder that you aren't leaving Baker Street."

"Aren't you at all curious about why Harry gave it to me?"

"It's clear she had no idea of its value, otherwise she'd never have given it to you. Guilt, perhaps? Was she trying to make up for something?"

"Only for five Christmases without cards or phone calls, much less presents. She knew that I always coveted that watch."

"Let me guess," Sherlock interrupted. "Step 9: make direct amends to all persons that she has harmed."

"Yep," John admitted, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. "Sorry, not enough sleep, I guess. What about that nap, Sherlock?"

"You nap," Sherlock said. "But first, I want to hear – what about the other present?"

"Oh, _that_. Ha!"

"Yes, that one. What is it?"

"A trip to the dissection warehouse at Columbia Medical School. The students begin the anatomy course in a few weeks and the medical corpses have all arrived. I know the instructor for the course – brother of an American doctor I served with in Afghanistan – and he offered to let us in, so you could take a look around, deduce their cause of death, that kind of thing."

"Are the causes of death documented?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the special thing," John said. "I thought you would like that. Yes, they're all from people who wanted to donate their bodies for medical education. And the cause of death is thoroughly documented in every case, as are demographic data and history of family illness."

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice. "You are _amazing._"

"I thought I was supposed to say that to _you_," John joked.

"No, you are. Now, go take your nap, Miss O'Hara."

"So you _do_ know _Gone With the Wind,_" John said.

"I have my methods," Sherlock said, with a grin. He went back to examining the watch as John made his way to the bedroom, shaking his head.

* * *

><p>I went out on a limb here and incorporated some of A Scandal in Belgravia. I hope my timeline doesn't get messed up with Baskerville and Reichenbach air, but I couldn't resist relying on the new insights gleaned from this episode.<p>

Also, I now have a tumblr account and am looking for people to follow! I'm at emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com . It's been pretty awesome, so far, following the waves of fan interest in the new episode.

Emma


	13. Pax XIII

Pax XIII

"Is this alright?" John asked, pulling at his bow tie. He saw his reflection in the mirror and, again, he was stunned anew by how a well-cut suit could do so much to his figure.

Sherlock looked over and scanned John from head to toe.

"You do know how to wear a uniform," Sherlock commented.

"Is this a uniform?" John asked.

"Of sorts. It says something about you."

"What does it say, to you, Sherlock?"

"It says that whoever picked out the suit has exceptional taste." Sherlock smirked.

"I'm afraid haven't thanked you properly," John admitted. His gaze caught Sherlock's and the detective felt a stirring in his chest. John looked dashing, and dignified, and still just like himself, yet somehow more so. _It's not the suit, John Watson,_ Sherlock thought. _It's you. You are what makes it magnificent. Because you know how to wear it. The dark gray was the right choice, with your fair colouring and your eyes. Next time we'll go for a subtle taupe, plaid perhaps. Nothing too ostentatious._

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked.

"Do I _like_ it, Sherlock?" John asked, amazed. "Can't you tell? This is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received."

"You didn't grow up in the Holmes household, clearly," Sherlock said. "It was clothes every Christmas for us. Even if I would have preferred a chemistry kit or a blowtorch."

John giggled. "Well, this is certainly turning out to be a Holmesian Christmas for me, all things considered. And, Sherlock – you shouldn't complain about getting clothes for Christmas, if your parents gave you tailored suits. Mine bought us wool socks and Wellingtons." Sherlock huffed."And you don't look half bad, yourself, Sherlock. You look pretty spectacular, actually," John said.

He had wanted to say that to Sherlock for a long time, but it had never seemed appropriate to comment on his flatmate's fashion sense before. Yet, with Sherlock towering above him in a dark blue jacket and shirt and matching trousers, his tie a perfect silver Windsor, he couldn't help but feel a little bit awed. _What would it be like,_ John wondered, _to enter the ball __**with**__ Sherlock? Or – and this thought frightened him a bit – to __**dance**__ with him?_

"In Argentina, the tango developed as a dance between two men," Sherlock said, as if he were aware of where John's thoughts were headed. "Dock workers and porters, and the like. There weren't any women so they danced with each other. It was only later, when prostitutes began to work at the port, that they began to dance with women."

"We're not in Buenos Aires," John said.

"No," Sherlock retorted. "We're in New York." He brushed a speck of lint off of John's shoulders, turning him around to face the mirror. "A very _gay_ New York, these days, I might add." They looked at each other in the mirror.

"And don't tell me you're not gay, John. I already know that." Sherlock sighed and put his hands on John's shoulders, leaning down to kiss his fair head. "But, please, can you try to not let this bother you so much?"

"It doesn't bother me, Sherlock," John said quickly, looking back at him through the mirror. He wanted to turn around and kiss Sherlock, he wanted to grab his friend and muss up his hair and unknot the tie and wrinkle his shirt and – but there was a ball to attend. And Mycroft. Always, always Mycroft.

"You're lying, John."

"Sherlock, you don't need to point out to me every time I'm lying," John protested. "Sometimes a lie is just someone's way of saying 'I don't want to talk about it now, thank you very much!' "

"Then why don't you just say that? Just tell me –" Sherlock was kissing his hair again, and then moving his mouth down to John's ear, and now John was seriously having second thoughts about the ball, and about ever leaving the hotel room…"—Just tell me what you want me to do. Or—" running his tongue along John's ear "—_not_ do."

"Sherlock," John growled. "You will go downstairs, and call for a cab, and I will join you in five minutes. Or we will not go at all." Sherlock straightened himself and pulled away from John. He quickly gathered his coat and gloves before dashing out of the suite.

John joined him at the reception area five minutes later.

* * *

><p>A large chandelier lit the United Nations' ballroom with a soft yellow light; various wreathes and garlands added colour to the scene. As Sherlock had described, most of the tables and chairs had been removed from the hall, leaving a broad open space for guests to mingle and, if they wished, to dance. Mycroft had waited for them at the entryway to the ballroom, talking earnestly to the Ambassador until he caught sight of Sherlock and John making their way down the corridor. Without missing a beat, he excused himself from the Ambassador's side long enough to sidle up to Sherlock and, in the ingratiating style that Sherlock abhorred, greeted them.<p>

"So good to see you, Sherlock, and your _caro mio_," Mycroft simpered as they entered the delegates' dining room. It was just the kind of comment Mycroft usually said, but this time John didn't bother to correct him, a fact that he was sure did not pass by Mycroft unnoticed.

"Is he here?" Sherlock asked. If his brother was all artifice, all pretence, then Sherlock would be blunt.

"Not that I can tell," Mycroft said, looking at John as if to say, _Are you sure you should be talking about this in front of him?_

"I wouldn't expect him to turn up as himself," Sherlock said. "How many disguises does Moriarty have by now? Do you think he could pass as a Czech diplomat? Or a Brazilian ambassador? What will it be for him, tonight, I wonder?"

"One never knows," Mycroft said with a bored air.

"Is everything set?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded, then turned to John, holding out his hand in greeting. "So good of you to come, Dr. Watson. I see that some of Sherlock's taste has rubbed off on you. Michael Andrews, then? Well done, well done." He nodded smugly. John smiled as brightly as he could and murmured his greetings. He wasn't sure what to expect from a Christmas ball at the United Nations. A few couples were already dancing, practicing twirls and steps on the floor. Sherlock scanned the gathering, narrowing his eyes as he recognized first one person, then another.

"Go help yourself to some food, John," he said, gesturing at the buffet tables lining the walls. "I expect you might be hungry." They were standing a foot apart, no closer than they would have in ordinary circumstances. Sherlock began to stroll towards the wall of windows and John followed him, keeping the same careful distance between them.

"What are you expecting to find, Sherlock?" John asked. They had reached the windows and were now staring out at the black night and the scattered points of lights that marked the bank of the river. Across from them, a large Coca-Cola sign glowed red.

"I'm not sure what we'll find," Sherlock replied. "Just – don't go too far. I need you to watch my back." He stood tall and silent, and John imagined how Sherlock would have appeared to anyone looking in from outside, his long, dark silhouette outlined against the lights and garlands of the ballroom.

"Left the gun back at Baker Street, I'm afraid," John joked under his breath.

"There are more guards here than there should be," Sherlock said in a low voice. "But that's because –"

John cut him off. "—Some of them aren't guards." He smiled grimly.

"No. Some of them are CIA."

"Are they allowed to enter the U.N.? I thought this was international territory."

Sherlock nodded. "They still have some jurisdiction here," he confirmed.

They stood gazing at the East River for a moment.

"Well, I guess I'll get something to eat, Sherlock," John said at last. "Come find me, will you?" Sherlock nodded, continuing to look out the window. He watched John's image reflected there, as John turned away and walked towards the buffet. Then Sherlock saw another figure approach him. Through the looking glass a woman's form emerged, joining him in his contemplation.

"It's a beautiful view," she said in a London accent.

"Yes," he agreed. "How are you tonight, Ambassador?" He did not turn to look at her, but kept his hands linked behind his back as he stared out at the river.

"I am well, Mr. Holmes. And you?"

"I imagine that you are quite anxious, despite appearances," Sherlock commented. "You hide your anxiety well. One might even think that you don't ever feel fear."

The red-haired woman turned towards him. "Why should I be nervous?" she asked him. He dovetailed so that they stood at an angle to one another, speaking to each other's reflection in the glass.

"Why don't you tell me, Ambassador? Perhaps because, at this very moment, in your townhouse on 51st Street, a man working for James Moriarty is about to complete a transaction that began earlier today."

"I fail to catch your meaning, Mr. Holmes. There is no one at my home at present. I live alone, you see."

"Except when my brother is visiting," Sherlock noted.

"Your brother, yes," she murmured. "He's here tonight, too. In case you haven't noticed."

"Ms. Barrett," Sherlock began. "There is nothing that escapes my notice. Or, should I call you Mrs. Irrázurri?" He turned fully towards her. "Would you care to dance?" he asked solemnly. She looked up at him and tried to compose her face. "Yes, I am asking you to dance, Ambassador. That is generally considered the appropriate response when a lovely woman seeks out one' company at a ball, is it not? Come." He took her elbow and pulled her away from the window, leading her towards the dance floor.

Across the room, Sherlock caught sight of John, his back to the crowd, filling a large plate with roast duck and sundries. Mycroft was next to him, apparently trying to engage John in conversation. He would talk to John later. For now, he needed his full attention focused on the Ambassador.

Sherlock put one arm around the ambassador's slender waist as his other arm gently guided her hand into the pose. The orchestra was playing an insipid Strauss waltz, the kind of music that Sherlock usually detested, but it was easy enough to dance to and he didn't need any additional distractions at the moment. He held his partner firmly, but not tightly; she could have easily pulled free of him. That was what he wanted, for her to feel bound to him, and yet utterly free, for he knew that she would not leave him until the dance had ended, and with Strauss's tendency to repeat his codas _ad infinitum,_ he had at least seven minutes to speak to her.

"There's no particular reason you should feel fear, Ms. Barrett, not if you listen to what I am about to tell you." Sherlock said, continuing the conversation he had just started. "Don't you think you're punching above your weight, here? This isn't Bogotá – or was it Medellín that you're more familiar with?"

"Of course, my husband was from Medellín," the ambassador snapped.

"Your husband, Franco Irrázurri Mirto, son of fascist exiles from Spain who established themselves in Medellín during the Spanish Civil War." She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I've done my research," Sherlock continued. "Did you think we wouldn't? By training, your husband was an attorney, by occupation a – what would we call your dear _esposo_? A gun-runner? Smuggler? _Narcotraficante?_"

"How _dare_ you," she said heatedly, pulling back from him, but he gripped her wrist firmly.

"Don't make a scene," Sherlock warned her. "There will be back-up on you in an instant."

"I know all the guards here," she said.

"These won't be your people," he warned her. "And these days, narcos are better known as terrorists. No matter the colour of their skin." The music continued, the lilting one-two-three of the Viennese waltz, and Sherlock looked over to the table where John and Mycroft were now seated. He began to lead Ambassador Barrett in a convoluted path towards the table, avoiding other couples and changing his direction so often that the ambassador didn't have the chance to see where they were going.

They made for a stunning couple: Sherlock with his tall elegance, the ambassador with the grace of an older woman who was still beautiful. She wore a dark green dress, cut on the bias, and matching emerald earrings. _From Colombia, no doubt_, Sherlock thought. Her hair was swept back into a low pompadour, adorned with a peacock feather. _A touch overdone, _he thought. _Though it will make quite the impression when she is handcuffed and dragged out later tonight._

"You came to find me, Ambassador," Sherlock said. "What did you want to say to me? A message, perhaps? A distraction?"

"Please," she began. "Does your brother know?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock snorted. "Do you really believe that anything gets past him? A little too convenient, this Colombian connection."

"Just because I may have had a connection to James Moriarty in the past – a quite legal connection, I will have you know – that is no reason for you to think that I have continued that association."

"Circumstantial evidence, is that what you think we have?" Sherlock laughed. "We have much more than that."

"Then prove it to me, before you throw these accusations in my face. You and your brother are here at my behest, need I remind you?"

"Which is why I suggest that you listen very carefully to what I am going to say. You will cooperate fully with Mycroft and with the law. You know that the Homeland Security Act is not among the more, shall we say, _lenient_ bills passed by the American legislature."

"I have diplomatic immunity," she said.

"And I am sure that you intend to fully exploit that immunity," he answered. "Which is why I am going to remind you that, if Moriarty's deal goes badly tonight – if, for example, someone were to apprehend his agent at your townhouse, recovering the paintings and thereby confirming the link between Moriarty and Al-Qaeda – you know that the law would not be the greatest of your concerns."

"Are you threatening me?" she asked.

"Not at all," Sherlock said, steering her gently towards Mycroft. "Merely reminding you that diplomatic immunity will not protect you from an assassin. And you _do_ know something of assassins, and of fear, don't you, Mrs. Irrázurri? And just how long have you been taking Atavan?"

"I never took my husband's name," she protested. "It's not custom in Colombia."

"You're trying to distract me. That does not work. I know that your husband was assassinated by a leftist cartel in Colombia. After that, you moved back to England, continued your service to Her Majesty's foreign office, were reassigned a number of times – to the Republic of Ireland, conveniently enough, and then to Bosnia – and finally you ended up here. Quite the position, ambassador the United Nations for Great Britain. And it will cause a great scandal if it gets out that you have been collaborating with terrorists. I don't think that even _your_ extensive collection of benzodiazepines will allow you to keep such a calm face when all of this is revealed. Especially if Moriarty sends someone after you."

"How are you going to protect me?" she asked.

"It's simple. Tell Mycroft and his American cousins what you know about Moriarty, and maybe they'll let you quietly resign. But, otherwise…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as the dance also came to an end. They had glided up beside John and Mycroft, who immediately grasped the Ambassador's hand and entreated her to share a dance with him. Her eyes, brighter even than her jewels, looked beseechingly at Sherlock as Mycroft led her away. _Crocodile's tears,_ he thought. Then, hearing another voice, he turned.

"Would you care to dance?" John was asking him. Sherlock blinked, a little taken aback.

"I thought – I thought – " he stumbled, thrown off guard despite himself.

"If what Mycroft told me is correct," John said, smiling up at him, "in just a few minutes, the British Ambassador will be led out of here – not exactly in handcuffs, but it _will_ cause a scene."

"A distraction, you mean," Sherlock clarified, coming just a bit closer.

"Yes, a distraction, Sherlock," John answered, taking Sherlock's left hand in his right.

"Am I to lead, then?" Sherlock asked. John laughed.

"Yes, you clod! You have at least six inches on me, of _course_ you are going to lead. I've resigned myself to that, with you."

"I hope I don't _always_ have to lead," Sherlock whispered as he drew John towards him. "I'm sure there are quite a few ways that you could lead _me_." He grinned down at John, who tried to stammer out a response. But then the music began again, and Sherlock was pulling him out onto the floor, and there was nothing to be said, because of the music, and the company, and the fact that he was there, actually _dancing_ with Sherlock, of all people – and in front of _others_, no less – well, that was almost too much for John to think about. So he did not think. He moved, instead. He danced with Sherlock even as the Ambassador was escorted out of the room, even as midnight approached and Christmas was over. John danced the waltz, the cha-cha, and the tango (yes, the _tango_, and it was a genuine Argentine tango, subtle and close, none of that rose-between-your-teeth nonsense), and he kept on dancing until the strobe lights came on and the Christmas lights went down – and who knew that _funk_ was on the playlist at the U.N.? And Lady Gaga? And who would have expected Sherlock to shake his hips like the best of them? Or take off his jacket and tie sometime shortly after 1:00?

Sherlock and John did not get back to the hotel until it was very, very late.


	14. Pax XIV

Pax XIV

John Watson woke up for the first time around seven the next morning. But as soon as he rolled away from Sherlock to check the time, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and murmured, "No, too early," pulling John more closely to him and back into sleep.

The second time John Watson woke up, he and Sherlock had switched positions; whereas the detective had spooned around John for most of the night, John found his chest pressed against Sherlock's back when he drifted into consciousness again several hours later. John's face was buried in Sherlock's neck, and he could smell his lover's shampoo and, under that, a faint whiff of perspiration. He tentatively pressed his lips to the nape of Sherlock's neck, and when Sherlock pushed back encouragingly against his hips, John licked the smooth skin at the top of Sherlock's shoulders, tasting of salt.

" 'Stoo early," Sherlock moaned.

"I know," John whispered into his ear. "I know – just – " he sighed – "—this is _so_ lovely, just lying next to you like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock wiggled his hips against John's, provoking a low chuckle from the doctor.

"Is that how you want to play, eh?" he asked.

"If you're going to wake me up, it better be for a good reason." Sherlock turned his head to look at John over his shoulder. "And first thing we both need to do is take a shower. You stink and I'm sure I do as well."

"I wasn't going to say anything, Dragon Breath, but now that you mention it..." John began. With a huff, Sherlock wrenched himself away from John's arms and rolled out of bed. John watched him as he dropped his pajama bottoms and pants, giving out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of Sherlock's naked bum a few feet away.

"Nice view," John commented. "I could get used to waking up to that."

He smiled to himself, watching the tug of Sherlock's muscles as the other man stretched his long arms up above his head, groaning. His eyes followed the contours of Sherlock's back: the smooth lines of his trapezius, the winged tips of his deltoids, the march of vertebrae down his spine. Sherlock had taken up judo again this past year, after a hiatus of half a decade, at John's suggestion. That is, at John's ultimatum:_ Either you get out of the house now and again and get some exercise, or I am going to drag you out with me to run in the mornings. _Sherlock had protested, but John had been serious about the running, serious enough to pull Sherlock out of bed at military hours and force him to run down to the Thames and back. Sherlock hated running, unless he was running after a suspect, so to appease John he had begun to frequent the dojo again. The sensei was a demanding teacher, and after his first night back on the mat, Sherlock wondered if he wasn't getting a bit old, after all. He was winded after just a few rounds of sparring – admittedly, the other black belts there had _not_ just come off of a five-year break, nor had they occupied themselves with cocaine and cigarettes in the meanwhile – and it was shame that had prodded Sherlock into training at the dojo as often as he could, after that. His training schedule had also had the unexpected benefit – in John's opinion – of stimulating the detective's meagre appetite and forcing him to sleep more than twice a week.

John was now looking at the results of those months of training; Sherlock would never be a large man, but in the two years since he had met John, he had filled out in all of the right ways. His chest was broader, his shoulders wider, and there was no doubt in John's mind that there was something positively _indecent_ in Sherlock's insistence on wearing his old D & G shirts when the buttons were ready to burst at the seams. At least, it had been mighty distracting, in the last few months, wondering how Sherlock would react if a button suddenly burst off his chest in the middle of a rant or discourse. But of course, that had never happened, and John was left to marvel at the subtle changes in his flatmate's body, now naked in front of him.

It was turning out to be a very fine Christmas, indeed.

"Don't be long," John called out, watching Sherlock sway – yes, actually _sway_ – his hips as he walked into the bathroom. John swallowed tightly.

"Care to join me?" Sherlock turned at the door to the bathroom, and John could see that Sherlock's cock was morning-hard.

John groaned and covered his face with an elbow.

Sherlock reached one arm up, gripping the arch of the door, and pushed his hip to the side as he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms.

"John," Sherlock said imperiously, "I need some."

"Need what?" John moaned. _As if he doesn't know, _Sherlock thought. _But why is he playing hard to get?_

"And I need you to _give_ _me some_."

"Give you _what_, Sherlock?" John dropped his arm from his face and smiled at Sherlock. _He's bluffing,_ Sherlock thought.

"Do I need to be blunt?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

_God_, John thought, looking at the glorious body on display in front of him. _He really has no idea. No bloody idea what he does to me._ _The sick tease. _He sighed loudly.

"John?" Sherlock prodded him. "We don't have all day."

"Yes, we do, Sherlock," John said. "That's the whole point of a holiday, isn't it? We have the whole day to spend however we want to."

"True. But I'd rather start it _now_, John. Without hanging participles. Come_. Now._" Sherlock turned, giving John another glimpse of his arse. John was enjoying this too much to stop.

"Are you going to make me get up and give you a bath?" he asked. "I'm quite comfortable here in bed, you know. And I'm not your nursemaid, despite what Lestrade might think."

Sherlock pouted. _Shut up John and join me. Shut up shut up shut up. _

"What do I have to do to get you to join me?"

John considered the question for a moment. "You have to tell me something."

"What?"

"You have to tell me something about yourself." He grinned. _I can't believe we're playing this, _John thought.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"No, not just anything, Sherlock. That would be boring. You have to answer any question I ask you."

"Where's the fun in that?" It made Sherlock nervous, suddenly, to think of John having the freedom to ask him anything.

"That's a royal thing for _you_ to say," John replied. "Isn't your favourite pastime 'Let's see what John Watson has been up to lately?' "

"I don't have to ask questions to get the answers I'm looking for."

"To get the answers for which you are looking, don't you mean?" John grinned at him from across the room.

"If I _am_ going to play your game, you can at least let me use your grammar."

John snorted. "Ha!" He began to giggle.

"What?"

"You can't stand to have anyone tell you you're wrong. About _anything._ Even grammar." John scooted to the edge of the bed and sat with his hands on his knees, his eyes wide as he continued to stare at a very naked, and very aroused, Sherlock.

"What is the question?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"The question? Oh, yes. The question. Let's see." John paused. _Who was the first person you kissed? Have you always like men more than women? Ooooh, I don't know if that's even the case. __**Do**__ you like men more than women? When did you find out that about yourself? When did you have sex for the first time? Was it with a man? A woman? When did you start to think about __**me**__? How long did you want this, with me? How many other people have you had since we met? Did you sleep with __**her**__?And, really, did you ever sleep with Lestrade?_

"I never slept with Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Nor with anyone else at Scotland Yard."

"Jeezus, Sherlock, how do you _do_ that?"

"How do I do what? Deduce what secrets you want to pry out of me? Easy. We're in the first week of a sexual relationship. You're an attractive, experienced, bisexual male, but you still feel uncomfortable being seen in public with another man. Interesting, need to explore further."

"What does that have to do with Lestrade?"

"I'm getting to that, John," Sherlock snapped. "You're attractive, but you don't think you are."

"I'm not ashamed of my body," John protested.

"No, you're not. But you do think that I'm – for lack of a better term – _out of your league._"

"That's harsh, Sherlock."

"You're wrong," Sherlock stated flatly. "But you won't believe me if I just tell you. So you're looking for evidence. That's what new lovers do: they look for evidence that they're something special, something different than whatever their lover had before. You want to know: are you special to _me_? What does it _mean_ to me, to sleep with you? So you'll ask me, you'll try to make it into a game, this questioning of who my previous lovers have been, and how they compare to you, and maybe, if you're lucky, you hope I'll tell you what you want to hear. So you'll ask me those questions, but you won't be happy with just any answer. You don't _really_ want to hear about the casual fucks I've had since I first met you –" John cringed and held a hand out, as if willing Sherlock to stop.

"Sherlock, that's –"

"You'll ask me, but you don't really want to know. This, despite the fact that I have known about _every_, and yes, I do mean _every_ woman that you have shagged and probably know about 90% of the women that you have snogged, within a 5% margin of error –"

"No fair when you hack into my email," John protested. "You've always known _everything_ about my dating life. And I know _nothing_ about yours. I'm just trying to balance the field here."

"I've told you, John," Sherlock said. "I've never been in a relationship before." He tried to say it nonchalantly, or even proudly, not wanting to show how it made him feel at a disadvantage, not knowing what John would expect from him, not knowing what to expect from _himself. _

"So you've said," John muttered, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes, the blue irises blown wide by the bright morning light.

"But you still want to know details," Sherlock observed. "So, go ahead. Try me. Ask me anything."

"I'm not sure I want to know, now," John said, dipping his head into his hands.

Sherlock took a step towards him and caressed John's blond head. John looked up.

"I _do_ want to know," John said. "But I think you're right. I don't really want to know. At least, not yet."

"Everything you need to know, I've already told you," Sherlock said softly. "I don't have friends. Just you."

"You know that's rubbish," John said, but with affection in his voice. "You know that Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Sally Donovan, would all be your friends in a moment, if you let yourself think of them that way."

"I don't want other friends, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. He spread John's knees out so that he standing between them, looking down at John and continuing to play with his hair. John turned his face into Sherlock's hand, reluctant to break contact with Sherlock. His hands came up to rest on Sherlock's hips, tracing lightly over the edges of the iliac crest. Sherlock's erection swayed and bobbed as John continued to run his fingers over Sherlock's stomach, brushing down the line of dark hair that led to his pubis.

"John," Sherlock gasped, when John's hands strayed to his balls, pulling them out from between his legs, holding them in his doctor's hands and thoughtfully stroking them.

"John," Sherlock said again, more insistently. "I only want _you_."

"Isn't that what I'm giving?" John asked softly, as the fingers from both his hands traced the outside of the younger man's sacs, just where they joined Sherlock's inner thighs.

"_Who_ you're giving," Sherlock corrected him.

John worked symmetrically, his hands in tandem, exploring the texture and weight of Sherlock's testicles: first between his fingers and in his palms, then with his tongue. They were smooth, under the hair, and John wondered briefly what they would feel like if they were shaved. And then he asked himself, _Where did __**that**__ thought come from?, _before returning to concentrate on the ridged underside of Sherlock's scrotum.

It was incredibly intimate, this act: John Watson didn't care how many teenagers were doing it these days, he was still a bit old-fashioned in that he had discovered oral sex _after_ the other kind of sex, the 'real' sex, as he would have said it back then. As a teenager, it was one thing if your girlfriend let you put your prick inside her, usually for just a few seconds, not enough for it to really feel good, certainly not long enough for you to come; but it was another thing entirely if she gave you head. And it was even more miraculous if she proposed the act without any bidding: if she, on her own initiative, bent down and took you out of your pants, took you first between her fingers and then in her mouth – now, _that_ was something, when it happened. And later, when it had happened between him and another man, John had still felt that there was something of the _verboten_ about it, and not just because it was a man whom he was sucking, or who sucking him – no, it wasn't just because he had a cock and not a cunt in his mouth, it was because, for the first time, he had begun to think of _this_ as just as much a part of sex as the old in-and-out of his school days.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

"About what it means to be doing this to you," John confessed. Sherlock bucked his hips forward, searching for John's mouth again. He had enjoyed the feel of John's tongue in the groove of his scrotum, and reprimanded himself for having asked John a question just when John's mouth had been doing such delightful things. But then – Sherlock really _did_ want to know what it meant to John, despite the fact that, by asking him, John would stop doing what he was doing, which was really less than ideal, but in this case Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him.

"What does it mean, then?"

John grunted and looked up at Sherlock's face. "Do you really want me to tell you right now? Or do you want me to continue what I was doing?"

"I still need to take a shower," Sherlock protested.

"No, you don't," John said, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's groin. "You are perfect, just like this."

"I must smell like a stable."

John snorted. "You smell wonderful, Sherlock. All musky and raw and – please, don't be embarrassed. Let me do this to you."

"I'm not embarr—Oh!" Sherlock gave an unexpected cry. "That – that – _yes_, John. _Yes._" John had taken Sherlock's shaft into his mouth, sucking gently around his glans, little strokes to ease Sherlock into the pleasure. He varied his motion, concentrating first on the head of the penis, then on Sherlock's shaft, running his tongue along it until it reached the base and then, even further, enveloping one testicle between his lips while Sherlock moaned above him. Sherlock's fingers searched for purchase in John's hair, his hips bucking wildly against John as soon as John lifted his head, and John was tempted to lie his lover down on the bed, and make him come there, but decided against it. _There is something so lovely about hearing Sherlock beg,_ he reminded himself.

"What was it you said, earlier, about 'wanting some'?" John asked, lifting up his face just enough to make Sherlock frantic with the sudden lack of contact.

"You know perfectly well what I said. Now _give it to me,_" Sherlock demanded.

John complied. He brought every skill at his disposal, from his surgeon's training to his own experience as the recipient of similar maneuvers, to give Sherlock what he hoped was an extraordinary oral wake-up call. His tongue and his lips moved steadily over the most sensitive parts of Sherlock's body, searching out the motion and the intensity that Sherlock liked the most. It never failed to amaze John, how different one person's body could be from another; while he preferred smooth, long strokes on his own cock, he had observed that Sherlock panted the most when his hands and mouth were erratic, unpredictable. _He likes the unexpected,_ John told himself. _And that is just like him, in every other regard._

Sherlock came rather quickly, all things considered – the lack of foreplay, the standing position, the interruptions to ask John questions – and John was gentle as Sherlock came down from the high, moving his mouth more and more slowly until he was barely sucking on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock shouted out unintelligible strings of words until the pulsations grew weaker and he had emptied himself of semen and stress. It was so relaxing, to stand there with his feet firmly on the ground, his hands interwoven in John's hair, to feel the deep satisfaction of the post-coital phase, that moment he always compared to the end of a piece of music, before the audience had begun to applaud, when the notes still lingered in the air and the final chords had marked the realisation of all that the music had been striving for, had anticipated. _This_ was what it felt like, Sherlock thought, as he clung to John and almost sobbed with the raw sentiment of it all. _It feels like the silence after the final notes, when my bow is still on the strings, and my instrument is still tucked under my chin, and I am waiting, waiting, for the tension of the moment to pass, so that I can put down my bow, swing the violin around by the neck, and finally stand, and bow, and bow again, to the audience's applause, no matter how few are listening._

"John?" Sherlock asked. "Are you listening?" John had leaned his head against Sherlock's stomach after Sherlock's orgasm, kissing around his lover's navel, tucking his tongue into the salty hole.

"Mmm," John murmured. "Yes. What, lo—" He caught himself before he could say it.

"Can you hear my heart?" Sherlock asked.

"I have a better grasp on what's happening in your stomach right now, to tell the truth," John said in a low voice, fascinated by the trail of hair that travelled up and down from Sherlock's navel.

"Come up here," Sherlock commanded, sliding his hands under John's shoulders so that he could pull him up into an embrace. "You're still dressed," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "We'll have to do something about that, soon."

"Soon," John said.

"Can you hear it now?" Sherlock asked.

"Your heartbeat? Yes, I can hear it." John pressed his ear against Sherlock's chest. There was something so childlike and precious about Sherlock wanting him to listen to his heart beat.

"I had this feeling," Sherlock began, "while you were –" he gestured, "_down there._ I felt like you were _playing me_."

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John asked, puzzled.

"I mean – have you ever played a musical instrument? Oh, of course you have, clarinet."

"Marching band was hardly an illuminating experience," John joked.

"That's not the point," Sherlock said. "The point is – I felt as if you were _playing me_. How can I describe it? As if I were the violin and you were the musician, and you knew just how to get the right notes out of me, _just_ how to get me where I needed to go, to build up the tension in exactly the right way –"

"Trial and error, Sher," John said, smiling despite himself at Sherlock's odd metaphor. "You do know that you just used a metaphor, don't you?" he asked.

"And?"

"Nothing. It's just very – romantic." John scratched the back of his head and pulled back to look Sherlock in the face. "I never thought you were the type to wax poetic," he admitted. Sherlock tensed in his arms. "Don't worry, Sherlock, I wasn't criticising you," John assured him. "I rather like this softer side of you."

"I was hardly _soft_," Sherlock said, deliberately drawing out the last word into a sexual innuendo.

"That you were decidedly _not_," John admitted. "Now, what do you say you let me sleep a little longer?"

"Only if you promise me that I get to wake you up in the same way."

"Done," John said, turning to the bed and pulling a very naked and very sated Sherlock down with him.

* * *

><p>Note: I'm not able to post as regularly to this as I was able to before the New Year, but rest assured, I will continue because there is so much more to come, not the least of which is the Enchanted Island gala! As soon as I see the performance myself on Jan. 17th, I will have a better idea how to write it. So plan on this story continuing at least until then.<p>

And thank you, thank you, for all of your kinds reviews and story alerts and favourites - so much fun to get, especially when I know that you are all so busy with the new series right now.

Love,

Emma


	15. Pax XV

Pax XV

Author's note: Kudos to Murdoke for spotting the Baskerville references in the last chapter. There are four intentional ones and perhaps some additional ones that I'm not aware of. Let me know if you spotted them!

I'm trying to maintain a more regular writing schedule this week. Lots of love to Terrier, Murdoke, Skyfullofstars, Dark Knightress, Zarra Rous, Tsukinoblossom, raven612, Baow, Daysofstorm, haveacreamteaonme, bluegirl, syncsister, Soapiefan, Lexeetee, Thisisforyou, wooooo, nebulousblender, ladyunebarton, and others of you who have left me such encouraging comments. Extra special thanks to Lastew and Tsukinoblossom for their insight and advice during the drafting of this and other chapters.

A disclosure at last: I don't own these characters, they belong to ACD and the BBC, etc. All mistakes are my own as I am prioritizing speed over accuracy.

Emma

* * *

><p>December 27th<p>

"That was fucking fantastic."

"Hmm? It _was_ good, wasn't it?"

"Quite," John agreed. "And now, Sherlock, I really have to leave this hotel room. D'ya know, I don't think I've spent two entire days in bed, having sex, since – well –"

"Since the spring that Harry came out to your parents and you spent the Easter holiday at Uni instead of going home?"

"Now I am convinced that you have psychic powers, Sherlock."

"It wasn't hard to deduce, John. I've had – shall we say – a certain _interest_ in your sexual history."

"I don't think I could have overlooked that, Sherlock."

"So you didn't overlook a comment left on your blog by one Elise Cutter?"

"Elise C-C-Cutter?" John stammered. "Elise _Cutter_?"

"She calls herself Elise Cutter-Smith nowadays, but I reckon she's the same one, isn't she?"

"She never left me a message on my blog, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. They lay facing each other on the bed. John's head was propped on one hand while his other explored the curve of Sherlock's shoulder.

"You didn't _delete_ it, did you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked away.

"Forget I mentioned it, John," he said. "I shouldn't have said a thing – you told me it was gauche to speak of ex-lovers."

"Then why did you bring it up?" Now Sherlock had pulled away from John and was standing at the foot of the bed, naked and flaccid, looking down at John's angry face.

"I shouldn't have said a thing. I was showing off," Sherlock admitted.

"You jolly well _were_ showing off. As if I didn't know you were an expert hacker. I just didn't think you would censor the comments on my blog. Was there anything else that I was supposed to read but never did?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "No," he lied. It was a convincing lie, and John lay back down with a sigh.

"So now _you're_ the one who needed to know all about my sexual history, is that it, Sherlock? Any particular reason why?"

"I needed to know whom I was dealing with," Sherlock said primly as he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a pair of clean pants.

"Nice try, Sherlock," John said. "But I'm really not in any state to criticize your sexual interest in me. Not after that fantastic shag."

"It was rather excellent, wasn't it? How would you rate it on position, John? Between the legs – I'd give it an 8.4. There's friction and tightness but the tendency to get oneself caught between the other's legs if he squeezes too tightly is a decided disadvantage. Let's reconsider that rating. How about a 7.0 for position. And then on technique…"

"I am not rating our sex life, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up from buttoning his shirt and blinked twice before answering.

"Sorry," he said roughly. "I just thought that, for the sake of future comparison, we could—" John cut him off.

"No. No. No." He paused for emphasis. "_No._"

"I thought that you liked to talk about _this_." Sherlock waved a hand at John and then at himself.

"About _us_? Yes, I do like to talk about us. But grading ourselves on our technique is not necessarily going to enhance our relationship."

"I don't see why not, John. Why should we make the same mistakes over and over if we can learn _now,_ at the beginning, what each of us likes?"

"Sherlock," John said. "There is _nothing_ that we have done together that was a mistake. Except, perhaps, staying in the basement of the Frick while the terrorists made away with the paintings, which _still_ haven't been recovered, unless you know something I don't know."

"They must have found out that we were on to them that night," Sherlock said. "Her apartment was empty the entire night. No one came by. But that doesn't mean that the paintings weren't there."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John was confused. _There's no way that Sherlock could ignore a hot case for two days just to laze about with me, drinking wine and reading and having this kind of sex. No damn way. _

Sherlock's face took on a disgruntled expression. "The paintings _were_ there, John. But no one came to retrieve them. And the Ambassador claims that they were planted there."

"And were they?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. That would be quite the coincidence. They were certainly there on purpose."

"When did you find this out, and why didn't you tell me earlier?" Sherlock now had another drawer open; he pulled out a pair of dark pants and threw them to John.

"In answer to your first question: I found this out yesterday morning. In answer to your second: you never asked me what happened. You were too busy getting shagged: in the shower, on the rug, in bed…"

"So now I have to ask in order for you to tell me about case information?" John asked, deliberately ignoring Sherlock's provocative comment. "Where's the old Sherlock Holmes, the one who couldn't wait to let everyone know when he had solved a case?"

"I didn't want you to distract you."

"That is ridiculous," John blurted out, sitting up and pulling on his pants. He had a sudden thought.

"You _didn't_ solve this case, did you, Sherlock? It was Mycroft this time. Am I right?"

"I told you before, John, I wasn't here to solve cases, I was merely here to _consult_."

John laughed. "Mycroft solved it."

"He did _not_."

"Yes, he did. That's the only possibility."

"Not the only possibility," Sherlock hedged. "Maybe _no one _solved it."

"If the case were still hot, then you wouldn't be here right now."

"I wouldn't?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"While I'd be flattered if you put a case aside to spend time with me, Sherlock, I know that's just not you. You wouldn't have taken this time off to eat and sleep and drink and– ." Sherlock cut him off.

"And _fuck,_ John. _Fuck. _That's what we did these last two days." He grinned widely.

"You wanker," John said with affection. "You just won't get over reminding me, will you?"

"No."

"So I had better just admit for once and for all that you are a fantastic fucker?"

"A _fucking_ fantastic fucker, John."

"You're distracting me again. _Case,_ Sherlock. What happened with the case?" John had been wondering but part of him had held out the hope that, indeed, Sherlock had been so distracted by the sex and the cuddling and the sweet sleep that he had forgot about the case.

"They recovered the paintings from the Ambassador's town home and returned them to the Frick. It was an open and shut case. _Boring._"

_Ah, so **that's** why you've been staying inside these past two days with me. I should have known it wasn't my fabulous personality and fit bod; you were bored. When will I ever learn?_

"I'd still like to know the details, Sherlock. Please, can't you just _pretend_ I'm your partner somewhere that's not here in bed?" John grinned at his own pun.

_John's upset,_ Sherlock thought. _What did I say wrong? I didn't say that __**he**__ was boring. I said that the __**case**__ was boring. We all saw it coming: the Colombian connection was just too obvious to miss. And this was one time I was glad to have Mycroft intervene. A man __**does**__ have his limits in terms of how far he is willing to go in the name of solving a case. And sex with a woman is one of those areas…_

"Moriarty had blackmailed Ambassador Barrett. We're still not sure about all the details there, but we know it had something to do with her husband's business. He's been dead for seven years but the Ambassador still has considerable assets in Colombia. Those assets could be stripped if the Colombian government found any ties to terrorist organizations. Ever since Uribe they have increased the pressure on businesses who fund terrorists. In Irrázurri's case, we're certain that those ties _do_ exist, if not to Moriarty's group, then to some puppet _caudillo_ that he controls."

"I'm following so far," John said. "So – why the big _dénouement_ at the U.N. ball?"

"Effect," Sherlock said tersely, drawing out the final consonants.

"For _effect?_" John asked incredulously.

"You know that there's nothing that Mycroft likes more than causing a scene. It was a power play to show the government back home who is in charge here, who is _really_ taking care of British interests abroad. Not the diplomatic corps, apparently."

"So – all this – was for _show_, then? Is there really a terrorist threat? Or was all of this some elaborate scheme to show the Home Office that Six does a better job at ensuring world peace than the United Nations?"

"I don't think it was intended as a statement on the United Nations as an organisation, John. Just on the selection of ambassadors who haven't come up through the ranks as career officers."

"But wasn't Mrs. Barrett – Mrs. Irrázurri – a career diplomat? She did serve in Colombia, after all. And Bosnia too, am I right?"

Sherlock had walked into the bathroom as John said these last few questions. When he returned, his chin was covered with white shaving lotion and a razor was in his right hand.

"Are you going to shave without a mirror?" John asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, going over to the sliding doors of the closet, which were hung with large mirrors. "I'm going to shave while I continue the story. You were the one who complained about my prickly lips last night."

"Sorry if I'm not so fond of carpet burn on my nether parts," John retorted. "But if you can talk and shave at the same time, then I admit it, I'm impressed."

"Then why don't _you_ talk, John? Tell me what happened, as best as you can make out."

John sighed. _Do we __**have**__ to play this game, Sherlock? Am I going to be your apprentice forever? _But as much as John might grumble, he had to admit that he enjoyed telling Sherlock what he knew, if only to see the look of surprise on Sherlock's face when the doctor noticed some minute detail that Sherlock imagined must have passed him by.

"Let's start with the Moriarty connection in Colombia, then. At some point in the late nineties or early noughts, Jim Moriarty, who was connected through family with Sinn Fein, cut his teeth in the Colombia shipping trade."

"Go on." Sherlock had finished shaving his left cheek and had moved on to the hairs on his long neck.

"Uhh, he specialized in intercepting arms shipments from the U.S. that were bound for the anti-guerrilla campaign waged by the Colombian government. Damn it, Sherlock, it's just like what is happening in Afghanistan! Weapons that are meant to stop terrorists are being confiscated by guerrilla groups and sold on the black market. And the local government is no good at keeping track of the arms. Or the officials make so little money that they're easily bought off. Am I right?"

"You have the general idea," Sherlock said. "See, I knew you'd like this case more if you thought it through by yourself."

"You just don't want to cut yourself shaving, Sherlock. And you like telling me when I'm wrong. So go ahead: tell me where I went wrong."

"In Afghanistan, weapons are coming from more sources. You have the breakdown of the Soviet Union and the theft of stores of chemical weapons from the region around Chechnya. Singularly nasty things those Soviet had stored away there in the Caucuses: the sulfur mustards, napalm, that sort of thing. Long outlawed by the G8, but when they were produced – 1970s? 1908s? – the Soviet Union wasn't letting weapon inspectors inside their borders. Cold War and all that. And then you have the Taliban groups that operate between Afghanistan and Pakistan, shuttling guns over the border, many of which are of U.S. manufacture, I might add."

"Yes, well, you _would_ know about Pakistan, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock ignored his comment. "Go on," he said. "I won't interrupt you again. Suffice it to say: Afghanistan is a lot messier than Colombia. Though heavens knows the international community can't stop throwing money at either country."

"Monetary sinkholes," John stately flatly. "The story of my life: defending British economic interests abroad."

"That's not what I was implying, John," Sherlock said, letting his arm fall to one side. "Just because I'm not fond of England's interventionist policies doesn't mean I think your time in the army was a waste. You became quite the sharpshooter. And your reflexes are still excellent." Sherlock turned to walk back to the bathroom. When he came out, a damp towel was wrapped around his neck. He patted at his chin as John rolled his eyes.

"This is a pointless exercise, Sherlock."

"You told me that I like correcting you. I do. So keep talking and I'll keep telling you where you get it wrong."

"I don't want to play this game right now, Sherlock," John said. He had found his trousers by now and was in the midst of pulling a blue striped shirt over his head. "Lunch?"

Sherlock blinked as if confused. "Lunch?"

"Yes, Sherlock. _Lunch_. The second meal of the day. _Déjeuner, almuerzo, almoço, _whatever you want to call it. L-U-N-C-H. Or we could go in for what is apparently quite the New York thing: _brunch._"

"I detest silly compound words, John."

"You won't detest brunch at Balthazar's, Sherlock."

"Balthazar's?" Sherlock wrinkled his brow.

"Great bistro down in the Village. My friend at the medical school recommended it for a romantic outing."

"You're asking your army buddies for dating advice? Now, _that's_ the most interesting thing you've told me all day. Don't tell me you told him what kind of person you were bringing to your romantic _brunch_."

"I told him I was bringing _you_, Sherlock."

"Your 'colleague'?" Sherlock asked, a hint of resentment in his voice.

"You're never going to get over the fact that I used to refer to myself as your colleague and not as your friend, are you?" John asked.

"Never," Sherlock said. "Though I supposed that one day I'll look back and be astonished that you didn't call me your 'boyfriend' from the very first. Especially when everyone else _insisted_ that we were a couple."

"Everyone but _you_, Sherlock."

"I never denied it," Sherlock said defensively.

"No, you didn't," John admitted. "And that, at least, gave me some hope." He paused. "As tempted as I am to continue this conversation – which I really should be taking advantage of, as long as you seem willing to use your mouth for talking – I am getting quite hungry. And I think you will like Balthazar's. Yes, yes, even _you_, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>An hour later, they were sitting in the mirror halls of McNally's fashionable bistro, eating chicken paillard and arguing over the thickness of the perfect <em>pommes frites. <em>After two days of wine and sex, even Sherlock had worked up an appetite.

"How do you feel about castles, John?" Sherlock asked towards the end of the meal.

"Castles?" John asked doubtfully.

"Not a _real_ castle. Not in this country. But – how about a monastery on a hill? It's not so different, really. At least, the Americans don't think there's much difference. We're in the country that built Las Vegas and Disney World, after all. But the Cloisters are worth the long tube ride. And it has great views of the Palisades and the river. If we take a train now," Sherlock said, looking at his watch, "We just might make it before the sun starts to set."

"Uh, _where_ are we going, Sherlock?"

"To the Tube," Sherlock said, rising from the table and snatching the bill as he went. _At least he pays for both of us now,_ John thought to himself. _Even if little else has changed._

"Are you coming, John?" John blinked and shook his head to clear it. _What am I thinking? Of __**course**__ things have changed with him. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was actually suggesting a __**date**_**.**

"Is this a date, Sherlock?" John whispered as he caught up with Sherlock at the maître d's podium.

Sherlock leaned his head back and, winking, looked at John. "It's whatever you want it to be."


	16. Pax XVI

**Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to Khorazir, for the amazing drawings that she created of Sherlock and John dancing at the United Nations ball. You can find her work, including this series, at khorazir dot tumblr dot com. I have been an admirer of her fanart for a long time and was flattered that she chose my story to illustrate. Also, because Khorazir and I share a love of bicycling, and because she has drawn some lovely images of Sherlock and John in (spandex) riding shorts, this chapter will partially fulfill my promise to her to write a cycling fic.**

**Abrazos,**

**Emma**

* * *

><p>Pax XVI<p>

When they got out of the subway at 190th Street, the sun was hanging low over the other side of the river, about to descend over the cliffs of the Palisades.

"Haven't been here in a while," Sherlock commented. "I wonder if the gardens…." His voice trailed off as he looked around the traffic roundabout where they had emerged. John looked around as well, involuntarily shivering and wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. Their breaths were visible in the frigid air, small puffs of cloud in front of their faces. Sherlock took John by the hand and began to walk across the roundabout, coming to the entry to the museum's grounds. John hardly had time to notice that Sherlock had taken his hand in public – _Outdoors_, John corrected himself, _The first time outdoors. After all, we practically didn't let go of each other at the dance –_ before Sherlock pulled him through the gate and into the heather garden.

"It's supposed to resemble an English moor," Sherlock explained. "Probably the only part of the garden that's worth seeing in winter. The rest is dormant. But over there –" he gestured expansively "—are rose beds, you can just see them covered up, and beyond they plant irises and lilies in the spring. Daffodils and narcissi, of course, and first of all, the crocuses, in March."

"It must be lovely," John responded, looking across the garden and down, over the Hudson River, dark gray and still. To their south he could see the large towers of the George Washington Bridge. They were at the highest spot in Manhattan, and the view was unimpeded by skyscrapers or streetlights. John D. Rockefeller's pet project, the Cloisters, towered over the river. It was a medieval artifact in a modern city.

"Are we going to go inside the museum?" John asked.

"Do you really want to see illuminated manuscripts and gargoyles?" Sherlock asked. "There are far better collections in Europe. And the building is a mishmash of architectural styles. Still, I find it charming in the summer, when the courtyard gardens are in bloom. I've always had a bit of interest in medieval kitchen gardens, and the herbs they used to grow there."

"Edible or poisonous?" John joked, thinking of the poisonous manuscripts in Eco's book.

"Medicinal," mostly, Sherlock admitted. "Yarrow and tansy, and wormwood, monk's hood, the like. Some were poisonous in large doses, like digitalis, but served healing functions when administered properly." Sherlock turned and grinned down at John, casually taking the other man's wrist in his gloved hands.

"It sounds like you have made quite the study of them, then." John looked up at Sherlock and took a sharp breath. _He's beautiful, _John thought,_ and even more ethereal in this slant of light. _Sherlock's face was lit with the golden light of the setting sun, and his eyes were bluer than usual.

Sherlock squeezed John's wrist more tightly. "There is a very thin line between that which kills and that which heals. Botulinum, botulism, Botox, remember?"

"Basics of pharmacology," John noted. "It's all about the dosage."

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

"You're a bit poisonous yourself, you know that?" Sherlock looked mildly puzzled, and yet strangely pleased. "Not in a bad way. Sherlock, hemlock – your name even sounds like a poison. And in large doses you can be quite the pain. But taken in the right dose, one might even say – you do _good._"

"I do not do good," Sherlock said huffily. "And I am not the doctor, here."

"Not with me, not usually," John conceded. "But I like to think of you as something rare and refined, like a delicate flower. You need special care to blossom."

"I'm hardly an orchid, John," Sherlock scoffed. "But leave it to you to mix metaphors to avoid offending me. You needn't have worried, anyway." Sherlock began to walk along the narrow garden path, John pulled close to his side. "I rather like the idea of being a poison. Now, the question is: _which poison_?"

"Why not hemlock? It has a rather storied history. I like the idea of you being linked to Socrates in some way."

"Other than in my methods?"

John hit his forehead with his palm. "Did I set you up for a pun without realizing it?"

"You did," Sherlock said. "For which I entirely forgive you the mixed metaphors earlier." _You are adorable, John. No. Not adorable. Fuck it Sherlock not adorable. Not adorable. That's a word that John would use to talk about Mrs. Hudson's flower pots. That's the kind of word someone like Sarah Sawyers would use. Not adorable. Then – what? What word to describe this darling little man – NO! Not again! Not darling, not adorable, not sweetheart or –_

"_Luv_," Sherlock began, before he realized what he was saying, "let me show you the paths down below. The views are spectacular." John shot a sharp glance at Sherlock. They might both pretend that Sherlock hadn't said anything out of the ordinary, but that would just be pretending.

"Thanks for that," John said lowly, so low that he thought that Sherlock might not have heard it. But then Sherlock's fingers squeezed John's wrist, their pressure an affirmation.

"I used to come up here to think," Sherlock said, changing the topic. "It's a good place to be alone. And to walk."

"You haven't told me much about your time in New York." They were reaching a stone wall. Sherlock leaned back against it and then, in one smooth gesture, lifted himself up to sit on it. John quickly followed suit, albeit less gracefully. They turned themselves around so that their legs dangled over the western side, facing the river and the sun, which was now so close to the horizon that it would be gone in just a few minutes.

"I didn't spent _that _much time here," Sherlock explained. "Just enough time to make some inroads into the Dominican community, to find out who was running drugs across the G.W."

"The G.W.?"

"George Washington Bridge. They called it the G.W. for short."

"And who was responsible? How did you find out? Is that why you know Spanish?"

Sherlock laughed. "No, John. That's not how I know Spanish. We were sent to Andalucía nearly every summer, growing up."

"Unusual choice for your parents? Spain?"

"They didn't come along," Sherlock responded. "Soon as school was out, we'd go to visit Abu—_Nanny_—in Seville." _That would explain the hair, _John thought. _Those dark curls – I would have thought Black Irish, but they could just as easily be Moorish. _

"Never told me that," John said. "In fact, you never tell me much about your family. I haven't met any of them except for Mycroft. And was that your cousin who died? You were going to tell me more about her, Sherlock."

Sherlock stiffened and drew in a breath. "What do you want to hear first, John? About my time in New York? Or about my cousin with multiple sclerosis? Or about my Spanish _abuela_ whose family was killed by Franco?"

John sighed. "Take your pick."

"I infiltrated the Dominican mafia because of my friendship with Don Leo, the owner of a bicycle shop."

John looked puzzled.

"Almost all of the bike mechanics in New York are Dominican," Sherlock said.

"I still don't understand."

"When I found that out, I thought, 'Perfect! I speak Spanish and I can certainly ride a bicycle!' But it wasn't as easy as that."

"I should hope not," John said, still confused. _What does riding a bike have to do with Dominican drugrunners?_

"Do you know that the most popular route that cyclists take to get out of the city is the bike path going over the G.W. Bridge?" John shook his head. "I realized it when I spent a Saturday morning patrolling the bridge in a cop car. If you think New Scotland Yard is pathetic, you should try a drug bust with the NYPD. Idiots, all of them."

"Don't tell me they can't speak English properly, too," John joked.

"Of course not. Do you want to hear about Don Leo?"

"Yes. Who is this Don Leo? Sounds like a mafia member if I ever heard of one."

"_Don_ is a sign of respect in Spanish, John. His full name is Leonardo Illanes. Forty-something, from Santo Domingo, runs a local bike shop that employs a number of pro cyclists from the Dominican Republic as mechanics. They ride for their teams in the D.R. in the winter, come to New York in the summer and ride for some teams here. I heard that Don Leo was well connected, so I went to him to buy a road bike. And then he taught me how to ride it, too." Sherlock brought out a pack of cigarettes from a chest pocket. John raised an eyebrow but did not protest.

The first drag of the cigarette was heavenly to Sherlock; at once he was transported to that summer when, despite his nearly daily bicycle riding, he had passed many nights smoking, at any one of New York's numerable outdoor cafés. _I'll bring John back here in August,_ Sherlock thought briefly. _I'll bring him back and we'll share a plate of linguine at Max's, sitting out on the patio and drinking sangiovese until midnight. It will be hot, and humid, the kind of New York night that makes me want to unbutton my shirt and wander around in sandals, a bohemian in the city. Not like London, not like Los Angeles: the sensuality of New York in the summer. Only Rio compares. Rio! Ah, Leblon…_

"We should come back here in the summer," Sherlock continued. "It's a different city. Not cold like this. It's – humid. And hot. Even at night, it's hot. In fact, nighttime is the best time of day, when it's summer in New York." Sherlock had a wistful look on his face. "Don Leo sold me the bike, quite a nice racing bike, a Giant TCR series, mavic wheels, carbon frame, the works. I thought that I might as well look the part if I was going to cross the bridge on my bike every day."

"Just how well did you 'look the part'?" John asked, as images of Sherlock in tight black shorts and a red racing jersey passed through his head. He imagined what it would be like to ride behind Sherlock, to watch his lover jump up from the saddle as he climbed a hill, his tight rear shaking and bobbing in the air until he reached the summit and, muscles burning, was forced to sit down again.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "I wore what they wore. Shorts, Jersey, helmet. Carried spare tubes and water bottles in my cages. Learned the lingo. I know the name of every bicycle part in English and in Spanish, thanks to Don Leo and the mechanics. They set me up with the bicycle, taught me how to ride, and then told me who to look out for."

"Amazing." John laughed. "You infiltrated the drug gang _while on your bike? Wearing tights?_"

Sherlock glared at him. "Lycra is the most comfortable thing to wear on a bicycle. Chafing is a serious issue. Not to mention crotch rot."

"Is that the technical term for it, then?" John laughed. "I just can't imagine you like that, dressing like some Giro rider. You must have been quite vulnerable, chasing after crooks on a bicycle."

"I wasn't 'chasing after' anybody," Sherlock said. "If anything, they were chasing after _me_."

"You were that fast, eh?" John's eyes were dark, his pupils large in the dying light. _Why can't we always be like this? Laughing together over cases, just like this. No boredom, no impossible mysteries, no drugs, no tantrums. Just Sherlock, like this. Making me laugh._

"I have been told that I am a natural on a bicycle," Sherlock said haughtily.

"So they said you're a good ride, then?" John chuckled. "I could have told you that." Sherlock blew air between his lips, sputtering. _Two can play at this_, he thought.

"I have been told that it's a pleasure to ride behind me," Sherlock said in a rough voice. "I keep a straight line, I don't coast, and my cadence is smooth. Very smooth. 95 rpm, smooth and steady and—"

"That's enough!" John said. "No need to give me a heart attack here. I can imagine it perfectly well. You and your long legs. I bet they're like a pair of pistons, pumping up and down and up and down and –"

"Why don't you come for a ride with me sometime, John?" Sherlock asked in a suggestive voice. "I'll take you to places you've never been."

"Like to New Jersey?"

"For a start," Sherlock said.

"How long?" John asked abruptly.

"How long what?"

"How long will we ride for?" John tried to keep a straight face.

"Depends on how much endurance you have, Doctor Watson. Are you an endurance athlete? Or more of a sprinter? With your height, I'd peg you for a hill climber. Or a sprinter, if you spent more time lifting weights."

"I'll climb anything you want me to climb," John said. "Or go down anything you want me to go down on."

"I have a few ideas," Sherlock murmured. "I'm more of a long-distance man myself, though I can pull out a sprint from time to time. If there's enough of an incentive."

"I think I can manage that," John said. _God, I want you right here, right now, Sherlock. I've had you six, seven, eight times? And I want to do it again. I want to go back to our hotel, and suck you off while you're standing against the wall, and make you tremble like you do every time your orgasm catches you standing up. I want to make you breathless. And then I want to give you a massage, a long, slow rub, show you with my hands just how much I love you and love this long body of yours. Has anyone ever done that to you? Spoil you, I mean. I want to spoil you. Is there something wrong with that, Sherlock? Is there something wrong with me, being in love with the prickliest prick I know, and wanting more than anything to adore him, to positively pamper him? And then, I want to lay you down, on that wide bed of ours – and, later, on your bed at Baker Street, in your surprisingly tidy and Spartan room – and luxuriate in you. I will rest my head on your chest and we will lay that way for hours, like we did yesterday, only it won't be a holiday, it won't be this in-between, fantastical time on an enchanted island. It will be home, and you'll be there with me._

"John?" Sherlock asked. "John?"

John shook himself out of his stupor. "Sorry, Sherlock. Just got lost in my thoughts. Say, have you noticed a drop in the temperature?"

"The sun set, John. And the wind picked up. Typical for this part of Manhattan, those strong cross-winds."

Sherlock would have told John more about the atmospheric conditions in the Northeast of the United States, if John had not leaned over and grabbed his face in his hands, pressing his tightly budded lips over Sherlock's. _It __**is**__ colder now, John was right, _Sherlock thought. And then: _His lips – they are warm, so warm against the cold air. I love your warmth, John. Yes, the warmth of your lips and that tongue of yours – please, open your mouth, part your lips, let me in to kiss you. Don't keep me out. Yes. Yes, like that. Open. I'm touching you, my tongue is touching yours, and it's hot and wet and sweet, ever so sweet. You are sweetness, John, and rightness and goodness, and I can't describe this any other way, though you would laugh at me, because you still think I don't have a heart. But I __**do**__ have a heart, of course I do, and it's my heart that's making me think these ridiculous thoughts, making me feel that they are not so ridiculous after all. You make me sentimental, John. Sentiment: what a strange word. Sentiment and sense and sensuality and sensibility, all children of the Latin __**sentire. **__An example of a word evolving to mean one thing and its opposite at once; Austen knew this, thus the clever title of her novel. How else could sense and sensibility be connected, if not because they derive from the same root? Or because the one requires the other – we cannot choose good, or even know what goodness is, unless there is evil in the world. Oh Milton, always Milton, it's always the blind poet who sees most clearly, always the genius who misses the obvious. You have been blind, Sherlock. Blind blind blind! Reason does not exist without its other half; __**el sueño de la razón produce monstruos**__, etc. etc. etc.__ John. John. John. What have you done to me, these past two years? What is happening to me, with you? What monstrous thing might I have become, if not for you?_

"Shall we go back, Sherlock?" John asked between kisses. He sensed Sherlock's distraction. But Sherlock pulled him even closer, and then slid the both of them off of the wall, breaking the kiss for only a moment before pressing John against the stone so that he could bear down more fiercely on John's mouth, John's lips, John's dear tongue. He felt a hunger, an actual pain in his chest that came from loving John and wanting John so very, very much. He wanted him even as he had him there, in his arms; he felt as if his desire and longing for this other person was boundless, was unquenchable. Surely there would be a day when he would _not_ think about John, not think about the small, unassuming man who had become his friend and his world and his lover; surely that day would come. In his rational mind he knew that love faded over time. He knew how people could change, how love withered and jealousy bloomed and former lovers came to hate another, even came to kill each other at times. He had more examples of those cases than he knew what to do with. And there were few precedents, in his life or in others', of the kind of longing that Sherlock was feeling now. He wanted to know more about it, he wanted to bring his reason to bear on this sentiment, and yet he feared it, too. _John might know,_ he thought. _John might know what to do._

John, it seemed, knew exactly what to do.

"I want to take you back to the hotel," he said in a low, teasing voice, "and find out how good a rider you are."


	17. Pax XVII

Pax XVII

* * *

><p>They waited far too long for the train to arrive to take them back downtown to Columbus Circle. Sherlock paced the subway platform, checking his watch every thirty seconds as if he could will the train to arrive faster. There was no mobile signal in New York's subway system, otherwise John was convinced that Sherlock would have spent the time catching up on his text messages; anything to ignore John, it seemed, and the obvious tension that had developed between the two of them at the Cloisters.<p>

Before they left Fort Tryon Park, Sherlock suggested they take a walk around the outside of the museum. He wanted to show John the exterior of the building and point out to him how, from across the river, this was the most prominent structure in northern Manhattan. John had nodded and made appreciative sounds, but neither of them was paying much attention to their surroundings. John had released Sherlock's hand, content to follow behind the taller man for a brief while. He enjoyed watching Sherlock's confident stride, noticing how the Belstaff showed off the set of his shoulders and the height of his figure. _God, this is my life,_ John thought. _This man is my best friend, and my partner, and there is no one whom I'd rather be with, right now, high above the river in the brightest city of the world._

Catching up with Sherlock, John took his hand again and pulled the detective close to his side. "Thank you for bringing me here, Sherlock," he said.

"I thought you would like it, John. The Cloisters have always been a favourite of mine."

"I don't just mean _this_," John said, gesturing to the museum building. "I mean – _all_ of this. This trip. New York. The hotel. The ball. The suit. Thank you." His last words were low and soft, and they sparked an ache in Sherlock's chest.

"Of course, John," he said brusquely, not wanting to betray how pleased he was that John had followed him to New York, that John had accepted _him_, Sherlock, and all of the difficulties that must necessarily follow from a relationship with the detective. Quite suddenly, Sherlock felt that he did not want John to speak. He did not want to have another conversation about _them_; it made him feel too inexperienced, too childish, to have these conversations with John about what they meant to one another, not knowing what he was supposed to say. He had no knowledge of that area, the things of the heart. _Let us return to the hotel, then, and to the mute pleasures of our bodies_, Sherlock thought.

And so they had made their way back to the subway, unprepared for the long, tense wait that would follow. When at last they boarded the A train, Sherlock was ready to kick the seats of the train in frustration. The only thing that kept him calm in the crowded car was the pressure of John's knee against his own as they sat next to one another. John stared around them, examining the other passengers on the train. Even though he was used to the diversity of London's commuters, New York beat even London in the brilliance and variety of its inhabitants. When they boarded the train near Fort Tryon Park, they were the only White men in a car of mostly Dominican housewives. John felt painfully out of place, but Sherlock appeared oblivious to the incongruity. When the train stopped at 168th Street, the station that served the Columbia medical school and Presbyterian Hospital, the doors were swarmed with medical personnel in scrubs and clogs, young men and women of every shade. John took note of the station, remembering that he and Sherlock would return there in a few days to visit the anatomy labs.

They had to push past other riders to reach the doors at Columbus Circle. It was rush hour, almost dinner time, but neither John nor Sherlock were hungry, exactly. They walked quickly and silently to the Hudson Hotel, not looking at one another until they reached the door of their suite, which Sherlock opened swiftly with his electronic key.

Once they were inside, John had scarcely a moment to remove his hat and coat before Sherlock was pushing him against the wall, pinning his hands to his sides. The detective's kisses were hard and violent, catching John off guard but arousing him more quickly than he had thought was possible at his age. _A pair of bloody teenagers, that's what we are, _he thought, and that was quite possibly his last coherent thought before Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth and John realised that he wanted Sherlock _now_ and _now was not fast enough._ He tried to move but Sherlock held fast to his arms even as he continued to kiss John with unrestrained fury. John felt their mouths collide together, almost painfully; he felt the salty taste of Sherlock's mouth, the rough skin on the younger's man upper lip, the chapped surface of Sherlock's lips.

He wanted Sherlock, God, how John wanted him. But he didn't know what he imagined _wanting_ Sherlock to mean. It had been easier with women; John didn't like to admit that, even to himself. But it was always easier when there was the possibility of mutual fulfilment, of the physical joining together that was expected, _always_ expected, when he went to bed with a woman. It didn't matter if she really preferred his face between her legs, or if she occasionally gave him a hand job; they both knew that, at the end of the night, it was the moment when she opened her legs for him and he entered her that was what counted. At least, that was how things had always been, for him. And it made him a bit embarrassed, and frustrated, that he kept viewing _those_ acts, and not these days and nights with Sherlock, as _sex_ sex. It bothered him, because Sherlock had become terribly important to him, was perhaps the most important person to have ever entered John's life, and he wanted to share more of himself with Sherlock.

Sherlock had pushed away John's cardigan and unbuttoned the top of John's shirt. He spread his long fingers through the hair on John's chest, sucking frantically on the shorter man's neck as he twisted one nipple between his fingers. John gasped; his knees buckled and he wanted Sherlock to continue and to stop, all at once. He thought he wouldn't be able to stay upright much longer, and so he pushed back against Sherlock, firmly and decisively enough to shake the detective out of his lascivious haze.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a bit confused. The expression on his face was difficult to read: there was lust there, oh yes, but the lust was mixed with something else. Hesitation? Worry? "John?" Sherlock repeated.

"Sorry. Just—can't remain standing, Sherlock. Let's go to the bedroom." Sherlock followed John, tugging at the knot in his own tie and opening his belt, shedding his clothes as quickly as possible. They left a line of crumpled garments between the living room and the bedroom, their socks and shirts mixing together on the floor.

John reached the bed first, rolling quickly onto his back as Sherlock pounced on top of him. They were both fully naked. The heat of their bodies coming together, the rub of their chests and hips and legs against each other, was almost too much for Sherlock to bear. _I want you, John,_ he thought. _I want to know you in all ways. I want to make you mine. I want—_

"Stop thinking, Sherlock," John commanded, when he sensed Sherlock's kisses becoming less frantic. "Kiss me. Kiss—"

Instead, Sherlock flipped John over onto his stomach and knelt solidly on the doctor's lower back. When John felt Sherlock drop towards him and graze his balls against the tops of John's buttocks, he let out a deep and contented sigh. _No, he can't be,_ John thought. _He can't be, not yet, not now. He doesn't know—_

But Sherlock had bent his head forward, and was now dropping light, teasing kisses over the back of John's neck even as he pressed his torso along the length of John's back. Shifting his position, Sherlock was able to slide his penis along the fissure between John's buttocks, prompting another groan from the man beneath him. It wasn't so much the sensation itself – though that was truly electric – that aroused John, as the image that he had in his head of Sherlock tight against him, his penis aroused and insistent against his arse. John tried to turn his head around to watch what was happening, but Sherlock's hands caught him and pushed him flat against the mattress.

"Shhh," Sherlock hushed him. "Be still. Relax. I want – I want to try something."

"Sherlock," John began to protest, "I haven't—_we_ haven't—done anything like this before."

Sherlock unexpectedly sat up, then grabbed John's shoulder and rolled the doctor over so that he was now kneeling gently on the other man's groin, their cocks rubbing against each other. Sherlock spit onto his palm, then reached down between them and grabbed John in his hand. John let out an unrecognizable sound, his words gurgling in his throat as Sherlock's hand worked up and down his shaft. They had already done this to each other, pleased each other with their hands and their mouths, but it was all so new to John, this lovemaking with Sherlock, that every encounter felt like the first time: shocking and marvellous and incredibly _sweet_. That sweetness, for example, when Sherlock's thumb passed over the groove at the tip of his prick, gliding over the drop of pre-cum that had leaked out; the gesture made John want to come then and there, and he felt the arousal building deep in his groin.

"Stop, Sherlock," he panted, fearful that if the younger man continued his ministrations for much longer, he would come much more quickly than he had intended.

"I'm sorry if you didn't like what I was doing before," Sherlock said, leaning close to John's ear.

"What?" John asked, a bit confused. "It wasn't that I didn't like it, it's just that I thought I'd come all over us right now if you kept that up with your hands."

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock corrected him, smiling into John's neck. "Though maybe I _will_ make you come all over us." John laughed. "No, what I was doing _before_," Sherlock continued. "The back way," he said, rather euphemistically for the detective. "There was something about it that you didn't like. You were scared. I could feel your pulse increase, and at first I thought it was arousal. But then you began to pull away from me, and I understood."

"_Do_ you understand, Sherlock?" John asked, willing his lover to take his time to talk things through.

"I think I do," Sherlock said, holding John tightly in his arms. "I'm a five and you're a two." John wrinkled his forehead, looking puzzled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Sherlock. I though we weren't going to rate our sex life."

"I'm not rating us. I'm just referring to an existing measure, the Kinsey Scale of Sexual Response. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes," John sighed. "Why do I think this _isn't_ going to help us get on with things?"

"Let me finish, John. For most of my life, I have been almost exclusively attracted to men. _Almost_, I say; there have been women here and there—"

"—If you're going to start talking about Irene Adler…" John said with a warning tone. Sherlock pulled back from him an inch to look into his eyes.

"Not her, John. Never her." He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised John's face. "You're still jealous of her. You needn't be. I'm here with you. And I want _you_. Absolutely. Every. Last. Part. Of. You. Do you hear me, John?"

"Yes," John whispered breathlessly.

"I want you and I'm trying to learn what you want from me. And what you will take."

"Well, not a prick in my arse, if that's what you were wondering," John exclaimed with a note of irritation in his voice. _Wrong words,_ he immediately scolded himself upon viewing the hurt on Sherlock's face. _Fuck it all, John, this is __**Sherlock**__you're in bed with here. You can't just expect him to understand where you're coming from if you don't tell him._

John tried to take his words back. "Sherlock—" he began, even as Sherlock began to pull away from him. "Sherlock! I didn't mean it like that. Sherlock—"

"I should have known you would be like this, John. You and your worship of – what should I call it? Heteronormativity? That's the academic term nowadays. You're like those Victorian men who let another man suck them off but then went home to sleep with the missus and never thought twice about it. It's _taking it in the arse_ that makes you less of a man, isn't that right? And as long as you're here with your pansy-wansy lover, you are always going to be top, is that how it is going to be?"

John pushed Sherlock off of him. "You wanker!" He shouted. "That is _not_ the way to talk to me if you're trying to convince me to try anal sex!" His voice was so loud that he was surprised by it.

"But it's true, isn't it, John?" Sherlock sneered at him. "_Real_ men don't take it up theirs."

John clenched his fists and hit them against the bed. He felt the anger rise in him and had to remind himself to take deep breaths, to calm down. _He doesn't mean it he doesn't mean it don't listen to him when he's like this,_ he thought. To Sherlock he said, "I feel quite the opposite, really, if you want to know."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said non-committally, shifting so that he could look at John's face. "John?" he asked, his voice now gentle, as he reached out to touch John's cheek. "I'm sorry, John."

John took Sherlock's hand in his own, placing it over his chest. "Sherlock – it's not that I think that real men don't bottom. That's ridiculous and you know it." He paused. "What I mean is this: that it takes a lot of courage to let another person do that to you, in that way. And I've never had that kind of courage before. Nor have I had _this_ with another man: the lovemaking, I mean. Jerking off together, yes. Casual encounters, yes. Even a boyfriend here and there. But nothing like what you and I have.

"We haven't talked about it, not directly, but we _are_ in a relationship, Sherlock, and _I love you_ and have been in love with you for ages. You know that; I told you that in Wales, and everybody else has been assuming it ever since we met. But that doesn't mean that I am ready to do everything with you, sexually speaking. It doesn't have anything to do with not wanting to be seen as gay or wanting to be the dominant one here. It's just – it scares me, Sherlock. The whole idea of opening up in that way scares me. I'm afraid of the pain, and I'm afraid of the mess. Yes, I'm a doctor, and yes, I do know that the rectum can expand quite a bit; it's not as if I haven't done a rectal exam before! But it's not the same thing to know that rationally and to know that _in_ my body. As soon as I feel your hands drifting towards that part of me, I tense up. That's what's going on. And though it may be a very normal part of sex for you—I don't know what you've done with other men—I have to let you know that for me, this is a very, very big step. And I've tried before, and it hasn't gone well. Not for me, and not for the other person involved."

"John," Sherlock breathed, leaning down to kiss him. He punctuated his kisses with John's name. "John. John. John."

"Sherlock?"

"I spoke too quickly, John. You were right."

"Ha! That's a new one. What was I right about?"

"That we need to talk more about these things."

"You can't deduce everything about me, you know," John pointed out. "You knew from my reaction that it made me nervous to feel you in that area, behind me like that—but you didn't ask me why. You just _assumed_ that you knew, based on whatever prior evidence you have gathered from me and other men. But I'm not just anyone, Sherlock; I'm _your lover_ and you have to _ask me what I want._ Do you understand? You ask me first, and then we'll figure things out. And I'll ask you, too."

"I want you inside me, John," Sherlock said, trying to reassure him. "I have known that for—for a while, anyway. You can have me first, if that makes things better." He smiled and looked away from John, suddenly shy.

"Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "That's very nice and all, but you can't just offer yourself up to me like that and expect that everything will be better. It doesn't work that way in a relationship." He saw how Sherlock's jaw went tense and realised that, once again, he had spoken too hastily. "Sherlock, I love you for that. I love you for your generosity. I love you for wanting this with me. But I also want you to understand that I am not the same person as you are."

"Of course you aren't, John," Sherlock said snappishly. "That would be a disaster."

"Just give me some time, Sherlock," John began patiently.

Sherlock interrupted him. "What did you think I was going to do? Take you _unwillingly_? I was just testing the waters."

"No, of course I didn't think you would do anything like that. Don't twist what I'm saying, Sherlock. We are starting to understand each other." He paused to think. "Sherlock, when _you_ started to have sex—sex with _men_, I mean—"

"Receptive anal intercourse is the correct term, I believe," Sherlock said formally.

"Fuck off," John said with a chuckle. "I'm trying to be serious."

"So am I."

"Yes, well, I'm trying to be serious here, but not _scientific_. They're not the same thing. I just wanted to know, Sherlock—what does it _feel like_, to be touched like that?"

"Where? In the anus?" Sherlock asked. John frowned. "Just so I'm clear that we're talking about the same thing."

"For God's sake, of _course_ I'm talking about in the anus, you arsehole!"

"You use a lot of euphemisms, you know."

"Don't try to distract me, Sherlock. What does it feel like?" John noticed that he was still half-hard, and he felt himself becoming more aroused at the thought of Sherlock discussing his sexual history with him.

"That's a ridiculous question, John. Basic epistemology: you can never know for certain what another person's experience is like. Words can never convey the reality of another."

"Bullshit. If that's true, then there's no point in our even having language. Sherlock, I know you don't like talking about emotions. That's fine. Just tell me what the sensation is like. Tell me about when you let someone do it to you for the first time."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"It was with Victor Trevor. He was a graduate student in chemistry at Cambridge. We worked together in the same lab for a year."

"I thought you said that you had never had a relationship before."

"I don't count it as a relationship, unless you count getting high and being fucked on nights when Victor's girlfriend was out of town as a 'relationship.' "

"So—" John considered his words carefully. _Sherlock was treated like that, once. He took it for Victor. Oh, Freud, you would have fun with this! Victorian men, Victor Trevor…men who view queer men as their sexual punching bags, men who won't open themselves up for fear of being called a fairy. That is what Sherlock was afraid of. He thought that __**I**__ might be that way, too. _

"It was a long time ago, John," Sherlock said slowly. "It was what I wanted, at the time."

"And later?"

"Sex has never been good for me, up till now." John was overcome with pity for Sherlock, for his inexperience and for the years he had spent without knowing what it was like to be loved by a sexual partner. He pulled Sherlock close for a kiss.

"You precious, precious man."

"John. Do you want me to tell you the rest?"

"Does it involve Victor?"

"Only his penis." John laughed.

"Go ahead, then. Tell me about _receptive anal intercourse_."

"It feels very odd, at first, any kind of pressure there. At least, it did for me. It is painful if your partner doesn't go easy with you from the beginning. You have to really want it, John, for it to feel good at all. And I've found that it takes a while to build up to that kind of desire, to train your body to seek out that kind of touch, instead of avoiding it. We _are_ supposed to avoid it, after all. It's so ingrained, our fear that by relaxing our sphincter, we'll let everything out." Sherlock laughed ruefully.

"So, how do you get from avoiding that, to wanting it?"

Sherlock smiled. "John, may I turn you over again?"

"Tell me what you are going to do."

"I am going to show you. I won't put anything inside you, John. I just want you to feel how sensitive it is, that whole area around your anus. You like it when I touch the cheeks of your buttocks, you like it when I lick your perineum—"

"_God_, Sherlock," John said, willingly turning over and exposing his arse to Sherlock's careful gaze. "Get going with it, will you?"

"My, quite eager now, aren't we, doctor?"

"This had better not feel like a prostate exam, Sherlock. No playing at doctor."

"You're the only doctor here," Sherlock affirmed. "But I need some equipment. Wait a moment."

"Way to kill the mood. Equipment!" John muttered, feeling ridiculous as he lay face-down on the bed, naked and waiting for Sherlock to return with the lube.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, as he began to lightly stroke the tops of John's buttocks with the pads of his fingers. John pressed his face into the mattress, holding his breath when Sherlock's fingers drifted lower, grazing over the broad gluteus muscles before tracing the join at the top of John's legs.

"Sherlock," John said. "It's so sensitive there." He exhaled deeply, feeling himself relax. He trusted Sherlock, and this made him happier than he had any right to be. _He won't do anything without asking me. This is hard for him. He's used to rushing in to things. He doesn't understand my hesitance, but he respects it. He won't hurt me. He won't._

"I know it's sensitive," Sherlock said. "Your hair is standing on end." He continued to gently run his fingers over John's rear, his hands moving in tandem as he caressed those hard curves, finding his way around John's side, then below the cheeks again, up to the small of his back and then, when John's muscles had loosened and Sherlock could hear his lover's breathing slow down, he drew one finger along the centre groove. John's entire body shook and he let out a small exclamation of surprise at the unexpected pleasure that Sherlock's hands were giving him. Sherlock's fingers skipped over the tight bud of John's anus, brushing down to graze his perineum and then, spreading John's legs more widely, to rest under his balls.

"Sherlock," John gasped.

"Yes, love?" Sherlock asked. "How is this? How does this feel?"

_As if I don't have to shy away from you, from any part of your touch, on any part of my body_. "As if I don't have to worry," he gulped out.

"You don't," Sherlock reassured him. "You don't. And there's more, John. I'm going to get the lube out and coat you so that there isn't any unnecessary friction." John could hear Sherlock opening and squeezing the tube, and then he heard the sound of Sherlock's palms rubbing together. _He's warming it for me,_ John realised. _He doesn't want to shock me with the cold. _This gesture of Sherlock's, so unexpectedly considerate, moved John to sit up slightly so that he could turn his head back and look at Sherlock.

Sherlock knelt back on his heels, his half-erect cock cuddled between his legs. He was staring at his hands, but looked up when John turned around.

"Thank you," John said.

"Is this good?"

"Very good." John fell back to the mattress. His body felt heavy, so heavy, as if a magnet were holding him down. _It's the exhaustion of everything,_ John thought. _The holiday, the case, the sex – I'm exhausted. Sherlock, you can do with me what you will, you do know that, don't you? I could not and would not lift a finger now to stop you. There you go, your wet fingers between my buttocks again, ah you bad, bad man, skipping over __**that**__ area again. You want me to beg, is that it? You want me to wonder what it's like, to be touched there, by you. You want me to anticipate it, long for it. Congratulations, Sherlock. I'm there. I want it. I want your fingers to graze me right there, right where you just passed over me, you git. Come __**on!**_

"Come on!" John gasped. "Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No," Sherlock said as he lowered his mouth to the small of John's back and kissed him softly. "Shhh," he said when John began to wriggle away from him. "Just my fingers, that's all. The kiss goes no further. Just let me kiss you here, like this." Sherlock dropped slow kisses over John's lower back, at the dimple where his spinal chord descended towards the coccyx. At the same time, his fingers continued to rub up and down the cleft in John's arse, coming closer to, but still avoiding that tender bud of tissue.

"I want it Sherlock," John said. "You can—" Before he could speak, Sherlock had rubbed one finger along the outside of his anus, barely skimming over the surface before descending to his balls and then upwards, once again, to John's entrance. On his second pass over it, Sherlock pressed down lightly against the opening, provoking a deep groan from John.

"This is as far as we'll go today," Sherlock told him. "I just want you to feel _this._" He drew circles over and around John's anus, and Sherlock found himself becoming erect again at the sight and sensation of his lover trembling underneath him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Let me—let me touch myself!"

Sherlock moved backwards so that John could come onto all fours, making space for one arm to come down and grasp his own cock. Sherlock rose up on his knees, sliding his cock against the slick groove that John presented to him.

"Just like this, John. I won't go any further. Just let me touch you like _this_, my love. Fuck fuck fuck. _Love_." Sherlock's control slipped just a bit when his cock touched the wet crevice between John's legs. He rubbed his erection along the length of the it, then pressed himself flat against John, taking care to not put too much of his weight on the smaller man. John was panting heavily now as he touched himself, crying out Sherlock's name and, Sherlock noticed, crying a few tears as well. Sherlock took his own cock between his fingers and used it to rub against John's opening. That small gesture awoke something in John, who pumped himself furiously and then spent himself in long ribbons of cum over the sheets. He quickly rolled over, away from the soiled sheets, and pulled Sherlock down on top of him, kissing the younger man's mouth with an urgency that had hitherto been lacking from the staid doctor. In the aftershocks of his orgasm, John wanted to eat Sherlock's delicious mouth, he wanted to devour his lover's tongue and teeth and his eyes and his long, smooth cock. _Oh, yes, Sherlock, give me that cock of yours and I'll make you sing._ Just as suddenly as he had bolted before, John now slipped Sherlock over, so that Sherlock was lying on his back, looking up at John in bewilderment. Before he knew what was happening, John's mouth was on his penis, the doctor's hands were spread across his chest, and John worked him rapidly to a deep orgasm, tugging on Sherlock's nipples all the while. Sherlock came with a loud growl, followed by an indecipherable string of words that made John laugh when he came up for air. John joined his lover at the head of the bed, propping his head up on one hand so that he could gaze at Sherlock's eyes. The detective's lashes fluttered erratically as John stared at him, filled with love.

"I will never get tired of telling you that you are amazing," John said matter-of-factly. "And brilliant. And damn sexy to boot."

Sherlock could not speak. For the first time, he had been rendered speechless by sex. _I want a cigarette, _he thought. _I want a cigarette but I want this more. I need—no, I __**want**__—no, I __**need**__ John. Here, beside me, while I come down from this. This high, this rush, whatever chemical reaction is occurring inside me. Love. That's what it is. Love. Love. Love. What a word! Love. John. Love. Yes. Yes. Yes. John. Love. John. John._

"John?" Sherlock asked as he tried to calm his breathing.

"Sherlock."

"I love you."

"I know you do." John lay down and drew a hand over his own face. "God almighty. Sherlock. What _was_ that just now?"

"Lo-_ve_." Sherlock pronounced the word as if it had two syllables, his teeth drawing over his lips with the dying vibrato of the 'v'.

"I'll take it," John said. "Any time." _What has happened to Sherlock? What happened to the wanker I fell in love with, the one who everyone thought was a freak? No, John. You never thought he was a freak. You wanted to punch the living daylights out of him sometimes, but you never, never saw him as anything less than brilliant and gorgeous and oh oh oh so loveable. This man! _

"What has happened to us, Sherlock?" John laughed.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked back, his eyes wrinkling in pleasure.

"What has _happened _to us? I'm not the man I was two years ago, when we first met. Hell, I doubt that I can say that I'm the man I was two _months_ ago. And I don't think you are, either. What happened to us this week?"

"Alchemy." Sherlock smiled slyly.

"Alchemy? Is that what we're practicing?"

"The endogenous opioids released by the body when one falls in love are more powerful than cocaine," Sherlock commented. "I'd call that a bit alchemical."

"_**Al**_chemical or chemical?"

"Is there a difference? Same root word. Arabic, you know. Medieval Arabic. The Arab world preserved science while Europe descended into the Middle Ages. Alchemy, chemistry, _alquimia, química_—same root. The thing and its opposite expressed in the same form."

"Now I _know_ that you aren't the real Sherlock Holmes. Alchemy! What about logic and reason?"

"_El sueño de la razón produce monstruos__." _

"Huh?"

"Logic is dangerous, John. Logic would have me entirely for herself; with logic, I would never do anything like _this. _Logic says that entanglements are dangerous; there is always the possibility of loss."

"Is that what kept you from having a relationship before?"

"I never fell in love before. I never thought that I could do so."

"And now?"

"I am in love with you, John Watson."

"You don't know how happy it makes me to hear that."

"I have an idea. I can't know for sure, John—of course I can never know for certain what really goes on in your head, the problem of other minds, and so on and so forth—but if you feel _at any way_ the same as I do when you tell me that you love me, then I think I can confidently say that I have some idea of how you feel right now."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, John."

"And what now, Sherlock? Where do we go from here?"

"To dinner, I would suggest. You must be hungry from now."

"I am perfectly satiated." John chuckled.

"Sated, satiated, satisfied. I am all of the above. Because of you, John. I could feed on air for a week and never feel hunger."

"That's pretty much your normal state when you're on a case, Sherlock. But you do need to eat once in a while."

"I booked a table at Per Se for eight o'clock."

"Per Se?"

"Thomas Keller's New York restaurant. It's on the top floor of the Columbus Circle shopping centre."

"Is this one of those places that is a really big deal in the food world, Sherlock?"

"Yes. You should wear your new suit."

John let out a half-hearted groan. "I knew you were a changeling. The real Sherlock Holmes doesn't pamper people like this."

"You're right. I don't pamper _people_, John. But you aren't people. And we _do_ have a reservation in a little less than an hour. It's only a block away, but it won't do to be late. And we both have to shower."

"Ah, yes, the mandatory Holmes primping."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I do not primp."

"You do. And I love you for it."

Sherlock opened one eye suspiciously. "You do?"

"I do. Who wants an ugly boyfriend, after all?"

Sherlock sat up to look more closely at John. "Are you saying that I'm your boyfriend?"

"What else does it mean when two people are in a relationship? I'm not calling you my paramour in public, and will only use 'lover' behind closed doors. You are my boyfriend, Sherlock, as well as my flatmate and my best friend and my lover. Oh, and a darn good shag as well. But my boyfriend, definitely _boyfriend._ Is that a title that you can get used to?"

"Can we tell Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? And Anderson?" Sherlock sounded positively gleeful.

John sighed. "I'll leave it up to you, Sherlock. Not that it will be a surprise to any interested party."

"Still, I'd like to get a look at Anderson's face when I kiss—"

"_No,_ Sherlock. No PDA."

"PDA?"

"Public Displays of Affection."

"The old heteronormativity rears its ugly head again."

"No, Sherlock. Just respect and decency. One does _not_ go around snogging one's lover in the workplace. Especially when, more likely that not, that workplace is a crime scene or a morgue."

"I see your point," Sherlock said. "But that doesn't mean that I can't kiss you _going in _to New Scotland Yard or _coming out._"

"Always one to find the exception to the rule, aren't you, Sherlock?"

"Absolutely."

"I suppose that I should be pleased."

"_You_ are the exception to the rule, John." John raised an eyebrow at him. "To the rule that I don't have friends, much less _boyfriends._ The rule that says I am supposed to be a glass virgin, a deduction machine."

"Who made up those rules, anyway? They sound like rubbish to me."

"They are, John. Utter rubbish."

"As it's almost the New Year, I would say: out with the old, and in with the new!"

"Hear, hear!" Sherlock raised his hand in an imaginary toast.

* * *

><p>Nota bene: Thanks for this chapter go to Khorazir, again for her imaginative illustrations, and to the very open-minded and sex-positive Tsukinoblossom. She is one awesome blossom, that one!<p> 


	18. Pax XVIII

Pax XVIII

Author's Note: Thanks for checking in and staying with me during this long week post-Reichenbach. I've appreciated your reviews and follows and favourites, and I'm more impressed than ever by this fandom and everything that they are putting together over there on tumblr. I finally saw _The Enchanted Island_ last night and have posted some photos of the outside of the Met Opera house on my tumblr account (emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com). The Met Opera gala will be coming soon!

Oh – and a note about the timeline of this fic. I know I have got it all confused, between real life and the show. I've included mentions of _Scandal in Belgravia_ and _Hounds of Baskerville_. But I can't write _Reichenbach_ into this fic without seriously changing the nature of it. So, for now, I'll ignore everything about _Reichenbach_ except the emotional tenor of that amazing episode. That, and the obvious love between our two protagonists. I want to keep that.

Emma

* * *

><p><span>December 29th<span>

"How about a walk in Central Park?" John said, once they had arisen and were both padding around the hotel suite in their dressing gowns and slippers.

"Boring," Sherlock declared from across the room. Once John had managed to shove him out of bed-Sherlock was surprisingly affectionate in the mornings—the detective had promptly ignored John while he checked his phone for messages.

"Aren't we ever going to leave Manhattan?"

Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow at John.

"What could you _possibly_ want to do that's not in Manhattan?"

"Well, we could – I don't know – walk across the Brooklyn Bridge or something?"

Sherlock snorted.

"What? And get run over by a cyclist?"

"I thought you _were_ a cyclist, Sherlock."

"Too cold to ride. Icy too. Next idea, please!"

"There's good Chinese food in Queens, I hear. Flushing."

"Is _that_ your suggestion for the day? Spend an hour on the 7 train to eat the same Cantonese food we could get on Baker Street?"

"Er—Indian food then? Jackson Heights?"

"Do be original, John. Immigrant groups _not_ highly visible in London, please, if we're going to eat 'ethnic.' "

"Mexican?"

"Not this far from the Río Grande. All we'll find is insipid chalupas and watered-down salsa."

"You're a hard one to please, you know that?"

"I _pride_ myself on it," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"So, do _you_ have a better suggestion, then?"

"Museum first. Travel later."

"_Another_ museum?" John sighed. "What's here that we can't see in London?"

"De Kooning."

"Fuck. You know I don't like modern art, Sherlock."

"But –-_I_— do." Sherlock drew out his words, his mouth pursing into a tight circle.

"Fine," John said, exasperated. "Why don't _you_ go to the museum and _I'll _stay here and work on my blog. It would do us both some good to get out of each other's hair."

"What are you going to write?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

John looked up from where he was sitting on the couch. The light from the room's wide windows caught his eyes and he squinted slightly.

"Thought I'd write up _The Case of the Conniving Colombian_," he said.

"The Ambassador isn't Colombian."

"No, but I like the alliteration. And it's _my_ blog."

"But I get veto power," Sherlock said huffily.

"Since _when_?" John's voice was harsher than he had intended it to be. _I should have known that our sex-induced truce would not last long, _he reminded himself. "You do _not_ have veto power. That's never been part of the agreement."

"What agreement?"

"You solve the cases, I write about them."

"I never asked you to do so. Hence, no agreement. Deal is _off_."

"How is the deal _off_ if there was never an agreement to begin with?"

"I. Want. Veto. Pow—"

"Yes, I _know_ you want veto power. But we're not the bloody U.N. Security Council here. You don't get veto power over my blog."

"I should hope we're not the Security Council!" Sherlock said. "Those bumbling _idiots—"_

"Yes, Sherlock. I know. You're smarter than all of them." John crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared Sherlock down. "Since when did you decide that you get to dictate what I say on my blog?"

"Since we started—uh—" Sherlock gesticulated wildly with his fingers. John gave him an intentionally blank stare. He knew where Sherlock was headed, but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of his comprehension.

"Since we started—_what?_ Since we started on our trip? Since Mycroft solved a case before you did?"

"It's not _that_, John." Sherlock dropped next to John on the sofa, lifting his feet onto John's lap. John reflexively pushed Sherlock's long limbs back onto the floor. Sherlock raised his feet again and John interrupted with,

"I am not going to have an argument with you with your feet on my lap."

"Is that what we're having? An argument?" Sherlock asked, staring down at his feet as if to say, _My feet would be so much more comfortable nestled between your legs, John_.

"Yes, an argument, Sherlock. Or, not really an argument. More like an ordinary squabble."

"No, I think this is different," Sherlock said. "This is a _lover's quarrel_."

"If you want to call it that, then fine."

"We are lovers. And we are quarrelling. Not debatable."

"Ha! If I debate this, does this mean that we'll have a quarrel about quarrelling?"

"That would prove my point."

"I don't know exactly what point you were trying to make, Sherlock. But I do want to know – why now?"

"Why what?"

"Don't play coy. Why now, Sherlock? Why do you want to have a say over what I write on my blog?"

"Because we weren't in a relationship before. I would have thought that was obvious to you, Three-Continents-Watson." _He's jealous he's just jealous ignore him John ignore him ignore him._

"Sherlock. Do you want to talk about it?" John offered him his hand, which Sherlock pointedly ignored. "I can't know why you're upset if you won't tell me."

"I'm hardly _upset_, John," Sherlock sniffed.

"Sorry. Of course you're not upset," John said in a placating and obviously false voice. "But – what's so different now that we're in a relationship?"

"I would have thought that would be elementary."

"I have a few ideas, Sherlock, but I'd really much rather hear what you have to say first. Not deduce you, if you catch my drift."

"John." Sherlock said, grabbing his wrist suddenly in a manner that reminded John of how Sherlock had read his palm, that evening in the Hungarian Pastry Shop. He curled his fingers back around Sherlock's and held tightly.

"Sherlock."

"John, I—" Sherlock hesitated. "I know that I said that I didn't care what others thought." He grew silent.

"How others thought about what? About _us_?"

"Yes, about us. And I _don't_ mind, it's not that. I don't mind if Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and all the rest—I don't care if they know about us."

"I'm hearing a 'but' somewhere here."

"I don't want you publishing on my blog that we're – that we're _in a relationship. _Even if the whole world believes that anyway."

"Yes, I think it's a bit late to deny it. Though God knows we've tried."

"_You've _denied it. I never denied it."

"You didn't correct them, though."

"No."

They sat in silence for half a minute, stroking each other's hands softly. John was struck again by how expressive Sherlock's fingers were. Even lying still, his left hand had assumed a position not unlike that which guided it over the violin strings, curved and possessive and strong. John felt a sudden whim to kiss Sherlock, to kiss him roughly and push him back against the cushions of the couch, and take him, yes _take him_, right there, before Sherlock had time to protest or return to his phone or plan another outing for the day. John wanted him; he wanted Sherlock, and he wanted him _now_, just when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable.

"You never denied it," John said in a whisper, his eyes wide.

"I never did," Sherlock admitted, beginning to kneed John's hand with his own.

"So why now? Why with the blog?"

"Because the blog is public."

"So were our lives before _this_, Sherlock. Before we started this together."

"It's not the same, and you know it," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Why the face?" John asked.

"What face?"

"You made a face just then. As if you resented something."

"I do." Sherlock closed his mouth into a tight line. "I resent not being able to share _this_—share _you_—and I don't mean that literally. I mean: I resent that we have to be private about things."

"I resent that too, Sherlock," John said.

"You do?" Sherlock looked at him, genuinely surprised.

"Yes, I do."

"Then why—why didn't you want to share a room with me? Why didn't you want me to buy you a suit?"

"I would have thought that was obvious," John said, parroting Sherlock's earlier words back at him.

"It's not. Not to me." John smiled at the thought that Sherlock couldn't understand something that was so obvious to him.

"We weren't lovers, then," he explained. "It's one thing to share a room with your lover, or to let him buy you expensive clothing. But it's quite a different story if you most definitely _are not_ lovers, and if you really wish you _were_, but said party does not appear interested."

"So that's it," Sherlock murmured.

"In part. The other thing that was so hard—hard for me, I mean; I know it wasn't hard for you—was having to listen to everyone else's theories that we were involved."

"We _were_ involved, John." Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and took a deep breath.

"But not in _that_ way."

Sherlock cocked his head and lower his fingers. "Do you know what you look like when you do that?"

"Do what?" John asked, puzzled.

"When you stick your tongue out. Just like _that_."

"I do not stick my tongue out."

"Yes, you do. When you're excited or when you're thinking about something difficult. Hence, something about this conversation is difficult for you."

"There you go again, changing the subject, Sherlock!"

_It doesn't have to be so hard, John, _Sherlock thought to himself. _You don't have to think so much about this. You are my best friend and I want to shag you now, too; what else is there to discuss?_

"Can I do anything to make it better?" Sherlock asked in a brusque voice, as if he were unused to asking such a question—which, indeed, he was.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sherlock—I—sometimes—"

"What?" Sherlock asked, taking his hand again.

"Sometimes you are too much for me. _This._ All this."

Sherlock dropped John's hand as if it were flaming hot. "What is too much?" he asked carefully.

"This—I don't know what you want to call it—a quarrel? Is that what's going on?"

"Is that what? John, please speak clearly or I'll never understand you."

John dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "I have no idea what we're talking about now, Sherlock."

"Then maybe," Sherlock ventured, "it's time for you to _stop talking._" He looked suggestively at John and took his wrist again.

"Don't look at _me_, Sherlock! I'm not the one who started this discussion! All I wanted to do was stay here, in peace, and work on my blog."

"Is that what you really want?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.

_Damn you, Sherlock,_ John thought. _You are so very, very fuckable right now. Do you have any idea how much I want to take you back to bed with me, strip you of that ridiculously tight shirt, and spend the morning devouring that long, luscious body of yours? _

"I am willing," Sherlock said, with a smirk. John looked up with a jerk.

"Jesus, Sherlock! How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Read my mind!"

"I didn't read your mind, John. I merely observed that your heart rate had climbed again. Elevated pulse, shallow breaths, sweaty palms. Either you're nervous, or you're aroused. Or, possibly, _both._ So, which is it, John?"

"Both," John gasped. "God, Sherlock, how do you _do_ this to me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Come here, John." He patted the sofa cushion next to him as he drew John into his arms. It was awkward finding a comfortable position, side by side, in which to kiss. But John felt inspired and, before Sherlock knew what he intended, he had pulled away from detective's arms and straddled Sherlock's lap, still keeping some distance between their bodies as he knelt over him.

"I like looking down at you for a change," John joked. Sherlock stared up at him with an intense, unreadable stare.

And then they were kissing each other fiercely, rubbing their tongues against together, feeling each other's chapped lips, their stubbled jaws, their soft hair as each grabbed the other's head to pull even closer together.

"I love you," John said, pulling away briefly to look down at his lover – _Yes, my lover, _he thought._ Sherlock, you are my lover, and by God, I am going to love you until you can't take it any more. I am going to pamper you and spoil you rotten – as if I haven't been doing that since the beginning – and I am going to discover what it is that you __**really**__ want from me, all of your secret thoughts, your deepest desires…._

But John did not say anything quite so maudlin. Instead, he looked fondly, desperately at Sherlock, and said,

"Should we stay here or go into the bedroom?"

"I told you we didn't need two beds," Sherlock said smugly.

John kissed him so that he would not be able to speak. He kissed Sherlock until his lips were swollen and red from the roughness of John's chin against them. He kissed Sherlock lips, first of all, and then he moved to Sherlock's cheeks, and the delightful curve of his cheekbones. He kissed each one tenderly, drifting upwards to Sherlock's eyes, which he pressed shut with his mouth.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

John kissed Sherlock's temples, first the right, then the left – _sensation above language, _Sherlock thought. _Right hemisphere, of course you would choose the right hemisphere, John. Here we are, right brain to right brain, pure sensation, preverbal logic (if there is any logic before language), speaking to each other without words. Yes, that's it. Right brain, your tongue on my right ear – what might I hear from that? The echolalia of love, the meaningless repetition of—_

"Hmmmm," John hummed. "Hmmmm, Sher—"

They were beyond language now. Beyond each other's names, wrapped up in the heat and the pulse and the sound of their bodies, skin covering muscle covering bone. And blood, always the blood, coursing through each of them, following a rhythm that was beyond any that Sherlock could name. He felt his breath synchronize with John's, and then he felt as if he were falling—falling-falling, into the deep blue sea, falling and there was only John to catch him, only John to keep him breathing.

Wordlessly, they removed each other's clothing.

Wordlessly, they moved into the bedroom.

And still, without words – still and silent as Yeats' wild swans – still they stood and stared at each other.

John moved first.

He reached towards Sherlock and tugged at his lover's hips, feeling the soft skin overlying the shallow bones as he pressed his chest to Sherlock's and stood, caught in the silence of their bodies and caught in the pulse, that definite rhythm, that moved between them.

"How can I ever love you completely?" John whispered.

"Shhh," murmured Sherlock, willing the older man to remain silent. "Shhh."

They moved quietly, then, their hands running over chests and stomachs and collarbones – _Always my shoulder,_ John thought, _always the fragile clavicle. Always the pain, the brokenness. This is why we are here now, Sherlock. To feel and not say anything. To feel –_

And then John could not think any longer, for Sherlock was moving backwards, pulling him towards the bed. They tumbled downwards together as Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John's waist. It nearly drove John mad to look down and see Sherlock, erect and expectant, exposed so utterly to his sight and to his touch.

He reached for his lover, then, and grasped Sherlock's penis in his sturdy hands. Sherlock's body shook and quivered under John's, causing John a moment of hesitation—only a moment—before he began to stroke him up and down, watching Sherlock's face to gauge his reaction.

John needn't have worried. Sherlock was as responsive as if he had never been touched before, shocked into submission by John's hands and his heat and his eyes, always John's eyes, those honest blue eyes that would not look away.

_He wouldn't dare,_ Sherlock thought, and the very idea aroused him further. _He wouldn't dare do __**that**_**—**

But then John _was_ doing that, was doing exactly what Sherlock had anticipated and longed for but had not dared express. He had his left hand in Sherlock's mouth, letting Sherlock suck his fingers until they were wet, and then his hand was between Sherlock's legs again, and moving further down, until he had Sherlock arching against the bed and into his fingers when he found the tight, hidden hole.

John kept his gaze focused on Sherlock's face, even as Sherlock turned away from him. _Too much, John,_ Sherlock thought. _Too much—your hands are enough. I can't bear your eyes. Go away. Go away and let me __**feel**__. Demand nothing of me. Demand—_

Suddenly John's right hand was on his cock again, his left hand smoothing circles over Sherlock's anus, and Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. _What is it, exactly, _he wondered, _about this form of touch? Why is this so forbidden, this kind of love? Who forbid this? Who ever said such a thing as this being wrong, immoral, unnatural? This is the most natural thing there is: your hands on me, inside me, pressing up and in and –_

Sherlock had turned his head away, but John continued to examine his lover's face even as his deft hands worked Sherlock to a that tenuous spot between desire and its completion. Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed together, as if by shutting out the image of John's body above his, he might prolong the pleasure for a few minutes longer. John wondered what images were passing in front of Sherlock's eyes, and whether or not they were as beautiful as the sight in front of him: Sherlock trembling, Sherlock open to his touch, Sherlock coming undone in a decidedly undignified and irrational fashion…

The orgasm was long and slow. John felt it building in the quick spasms that clenched around his finger, and he saw its advent in the grimace that came over Sherlock's face, and in the elegant circles that Sherlock traced over his back, willing John to continue the sweet exercise of his hands.

Sherlock in ecstasy – however fleeting such ecstasy might be – made John heady with longing for _more more more_.

_More of this, _he thought. _How can I ever get my fill of you? How can I make this last? How can we be closer than __**this**__? Knowing that I'm doing this to you, Sherlock. Sherlock. Look at me,_ he willed him, as Sherlock turned his head up and opened his eyes at last.

They both spoke at once.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"John. I spoke first. John. My **god**, what was _that_?" Sherlock was gasping for breath, searching for the right words to mark the moment, even as he pulled John even closer and kissed his rough lips.

"That was love, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

He held John's head in his hands, and this time it was John who wanted to turn away from Sherlock's gaze, John who wanted to bury his head into Sherlock's chest and never, never look up again. This was love.


	19. Pax XIX

It took Sherlock several minutes before he was willing to let go of John, and another minute before his conscience, unused to considering another, prodded him into response.

"Can I give you something in return?" Sherlock asked.

John pondered that.

"Are you saying that because you just had an amazing orgasm and now you feel the need to reciprocate?"

"Yes."

John sighed and rolled over onto his back.

"Sherlock, sex doesn't have to be tit for tat."

"You're aroused, John."

"So? It's morning."

"You're aroused and you're leaking."

John shot Sherlock a dirty look. "Watch your language," he said in a warning tone.

"I'm just observing. You are a very unusual man, John Watson."

"Am I?" John asked, feeling pleased despite his irritation.

"Yes. You are clearly aroused and desirous of intercourse, yet you are refusing it. Why? I have three hypothe-"

"Intercourse, Sherlock?"

"Intercourse," Sherlock repeated brusquely.

"Can we use a different term, at least?" John said.

"Is 'intercourse' not euphemistic enough for you? What shall it be, then? I could have said _love-making_ but as we have already established, _all_ of this is love-making. Touching stroking kissing sobbing rubbing screaming sodding – did I leave anything out? – _love-making_. And I specifically meant intercourse. As per the archaic meaning—"

"You and your obscure words," John muttered.

"Intercourse, as it was once used, referred to commerce or trade between nations—"

"No shit, Sherlock. I do have a university education. And I hope that you're not saying that I wish to engage in 'trade with other nations.' "

"I was merely using that as a point of comparison. _Intercourse_ is not an adequate word to describe what you are looking for. There are too many possible meanings to the term."

"Care to deduce me, then? Tell me what I'm looking for if not _intercourse_?"

Sherlock climbed on top of John, pressing his chest against the smaller man's torso. He examined John's face, gently brushing his bangs away from his forehead.

"You want to fuck me," Sherlock said, his eyes scanning John's countenance. "But you are too nervous to say so."

John closed his eyes briefly before looking back at Sherlock.

"And so what if that's the case? Wanting something is one thing. Asking for it is another."

"You can ask me," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I don't mind you asking."

John let out a jagged breath. Sherlock's long thighs had pushed their way between his legs, spreading his knees wide and exposing his very erect cock to the detective's wandering hands.

"Sherlock, I—"

"Shhh, John. You don't have to say anything. Just – let me do this. For you."

John rested his head back against the mattress, acutely attuned to the soft touch of Sherlock's fingers rubbing finger-eights around his balls.

John remembered how, in his youth, a girlfriend of his had once complained that he 'cut straight to the chase,' because of his particular predilection for touching her clitoris before she had even had time to fully remove her clothing. He had resisted her advice that he take a more roundabout route to pleasure, an oversight which, no doubt, had contributed to her breaking up with him shortly afterwards. There should not have been anything about this love-making with Sherlock to remind him of Regina, but the urgency of Sherlock's actions reminded John of his erstwhile self, a young man who wanted sex and _wanted it now._

With Sherlock, things had been different. John had sometimes felt that urgency with the detective, but just as often he had wanted the luxury of making love slowly and deliberately. He loved it when Sherlock took his sweet time working his mouth down John's body. He loved it when, as he had just done, he was able to wring every last drop of ejaculate out of Sherlock's body. He had loved the other morning's adventure in the shower, and he loved, perhaps most of all, the anticipatory glances that Sherlock gave him in public, glances that said, _I may look like I'm aloof and uncaring, but I assure you that when we get back to the hotel you are going to see me as no one else has ever seen me._ He was struck by how, since they had commenced their relationship a week earlier (_had it only been a week?_), there was scarcely anything that Sherlock did that John failed to find arousing. Their love-making had been, by turns, frantic, tender, rough, and hesitant. And John loved it all.

Yet it was odd to John how, even as Sherlock was undoubtedly the most extraordinary partner that he had ever had, their love-making was still underlain by recollections of other lovers, other times. In Sherlock's kisses John might feel, for example, the texture of other lips, just as, when Sherlock cried out John's name at the height of orgasm, John would be startled into recalling another's voice, the memory of it unbidden and unwanted. It was as if, by making love with Sherlock, all of John's former lovers were called up out of the recesses of his memory. Their scents, their voices, even the smooth surfaces of their limbs, appeared to John like a series of superimposed images, palimpsests of his former self. He was John Watson in New York City, shagging Sherlock Holmes, and then at once he was John Watson, last year at uni, kissing another man for the first time. It was disorienting, to say the least. Where had he stored these memories, all of these years? Why had they not bothered him before, when he was having sex with Sarah, for instance? It was absurd that they would come to him just now, when more than anything he wished to begin things afresh with Sherlock.

For the first time in his life, he wished that he had not been quite so profligate in his sexual explorations. He wished that he was the proverbial blank slate and not, as he was, an experienced veteran of sexual games.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock interrupted. "You need to stop thinking so that you can enjoy this."

"Arggg," John sputtered. "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I don't know _what_ you are thinking, John. I only know that I am putting all of my attention into the underside of your balls, and you have gone somewhere else. Not here."

John reached down and pulled at Sherlock's shoulders, bringing the other man to lie on top of him again. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, hugging him close.

"How can I be _right here_, then?" he asked softly.

"You still don't believe that this is real," Sherlock said. "So you've gone out, gone somewhere else, and left me in charge of your body."

"When did you ever learn about a thing like that?" John was startled by Sherlock's acumen.

Sherlock shook his head. "John, John, John. It's _me_. You know how I think. And I think that you are thinking too much. Come back here. Come back to me." He paused. "It's too much, isn't it? _I'm_ too much for you."

"God—_no_. Sherlock, I never meant it like that. I never wanted you to stop. I just—yes. No. Yes, I suppose you're right."

The detective raised an eyebrow. "Explicate," he demanded.

"Yes, I went 'elsewhere' for a little while. Lost in a reverie, I guess. But not because you're too much. In fact, rather the opposite."

"I hate to admit it, but I do not understand."

John released his legs from around Sherlock's waist and flipped them both over so that he was now on top of Sherlock, pressing into the younger man's chest and looking down into his glassy eyes.

"I _want_ to get lost in you, Sherlock. I want you to completely fill me." He paused as Sherlock raised his eyebrow even higher than before. "No, I don't mean in _that_ way," he backtracked. "Well, maybe I _do_ mean in that way. But not yet. What I mean is—" John took a deep breath "—I want it to be just the two of us, here and now and forever. And don't go and get all frightened because I've said 'forever,' Sherlock. Just listen to me."

"You want us to exist outside of time," Sherlock said enigmatically.

"I wasn't going to be so metaphysical about it, but maybe that's right. I want to just _be here with you._ And I know this can't last. I know that this perfect week, here in New York, can't last forever."

"_Tempus fugit,_" Sherlock murmured.

"Right. Before we know it, we'll be back in London, solving cases and bickering as usual about the mess around the flat, and this—this peaceful interlude—will be a thing of the past."

"It _has_ been rather peaceful here," Sherlock admitted. "Barring the museum heist and the terrorist plot, it has been a veritable _pax americana._"

"Leave it to you to compare our sex lives to international politics."

"A_ffaires politiques, a__ffaires de cœur..._"

"Can we please return to discussing intercourse, Sherlock?" John moved his hips suggestively against Sherlock's.

The detective smiled. "It will never be peaceful in our lives, John. You know that. And this week is no exception, however much you want to believe otherwise. There were any number of instances when you or I could have been—or in fact were—in danger."

"And so what do we do? How can we do _this_ if we know that, at any moment, one or the other of us could be killed?"

"Isn't that the risk that we take? The risk _everyone_ takes?" Sherlock blinked. "John, I wouldn't have thought that I would be the one to remind _you_ of this. You, the retired solider. I'm just an armchair detective."

"You are not. You take as many risks—or more—than I do."

"So why don't you want to take _this_ risk, John?"

"Which risk are you referring to now?"

"Love is a risk. So is sex. Take your pick. I'm offering both of them to you."

"Intercourse?"

"Intercourse, as well as an _affaire de cœur._"

"You mad, mad man," John said dreamily, brushing his lips over Sherlock's. "Why do I love you so much?"

Sherlock responded by opening his mouth to John's kiss, his lips tugging at John's tongue, urging him closer.

They kissed for several minutes, then. Sherlock's body was still oversensitive from his orgasm, and when John moved his mouth down to the younger man's nipples, Sherlock arched his back off of the bed and protested with a whimper.

"Shhh," John reassured him. "I won't go any further."

"You had _better_ go further," Sherlock retorted. "Just—forgive me if it takes me a few more minutes to get my bearings. Oh, yes, John, that's it, right there—" For John's mouth was on Sherlock's sternum now, passing over the sparse hairs that marked the centre of Sherlock's rib cage, and then he moved his mouth lower, following the line of hair down to Sherlock's navel, where he paused to insert his slippery tongue.

"I can't-_John!_" Sherlock said. His cock was still limp; he didn't want John to go any further, for then the sensation really _would_ be too much. But John's head had descended and now he was licking at the damp curls approaching Sherlock's groin, and Sherlock couldn't help letting out a moan. _It's impossible, he can't—__**I**__can't—God, John, don't—stop. Don't—stop. Donotstopdonotstop._

John's mouth had found Sherlock's balls for a second time that morning. A tremor ran through Sherlock's body when John's tongue lapped at the groove between them, and he found himself clawing at John's head, at his neck, at his shoulders—anything to prevent himself from being lost in the overblown sensations. John purposefully avoided Sherlock's cock, concentrating entirely on the low-lying heft of Sherlock's testicles, which he circled with his tongue in the same figure-eight pattern that Sherlock had performed on him earlier.

"Are you going to let me do this?" John asked. He spit on his hands and moved a finger down to rest between Sherlock's buttocks.

"Lube," Sherlock blurted out, wrenching himself out of John's grasp and dragging himself over to the bedside table. He opened the drawer and pulled out the bottle of lube and one condom, handing both to John.

Sherlock lay back again against the mattress. "It will be easier if I am on my stomach," he told John. "Missionary style isn't, um, the traditional way in this instance."

"I want to see your face for now," John said, as he flipped open the tube of lube. "Don't worry, I'll turn you over when you're ready."

His hands between Sherlock's legs were wet and slick, now grazing over his anus, now skipping the area entirely to focus on the firm notch of Sherlock's perineum.

"How does this feel?" John asked, watching Sherlock's face for any change in expression. But Sherlock, with his eyes shut and his mouth slightly parted in anticipation, appeared only expectant—not disturbed, not distracted.

"Fine," Sherlock murmured. "Fine—fine—fine."

"Is it too much, too soon?" John asked.

"Not too much. That—there—_yes_," Sherlock moaned, as John's finger returned again to his opening. _It's always that first touch that is the most shocking, the most unbelievable_, Sherlock thought.

"I'm a virgin in this regard," John joked nervously.

"You do know how to do a prostate exam, don't you?" Sherlock managed to joke. "Just work it in gently. I'll tell you if it's too much."

"You _will_ tell me, won't you? I don't think I can trust you, Sherlock. Your level of pain tolerance is unusually high, even for a sociopath."

It shouldn't have sounded sexy to Sherlock, to hear John jokingly call him a sociopath, but despite himself he let out a sharp exhale. John's finger was rubbing circles against the entrance to his arse, and then his finger slipped inside Sherlock a second time, all slippery and smooth and trustworthy, _Yes, trustworthy, you dependable man, you. John. You won't fuck this up. _

John was still hard himself, and grew even more aroused at the sight of Sherlock squirming underneath him, rhythmically moving his arse against John's finger.

"Is this alright?" John asked.

"Quite," Sherlock managed to say.

"I'm going to try another finger, OK?" Sherlock nodded, and then he felt another finger against the first, and he willed himself to relax his muscle so that John could enter more easily.

"What does this feel like?" John asked.

_You and your obsession with knowing what it's like,_ Sherlock thought.

"Different," he said curtly.

"Different from what?" It occurred to John that Sherlock might be thinking of the other times that he had let someone do this to him.

"Different from anything else. Not like your mouth around my cock. Not like my mouth around yours. Not like sex with a woman. It's like—there's nothing to compare. We don't have the right anatomy to make that comparison."

John laughed, reassured by Sherlock's honesty.

"Epistemology, again, Sherlock? How can you think and feel at the same time?"

"How can you _not_?" Sherlock asked. And then he understood what John meant, for John was now moving two fingers quickly in and out of Sherlock's opening in a delightfully predictable rhythm, and Sherlock did not want to think anymore, he did not want to analyse or parse or pun. He did not want the words. He only wanted the sensation of John's fingers inside of him, just like that, so perfect and so striking.

Sherlock watched John watching him. There was an expression on John's face that Sherlock could not read—_Vulnerability? Awe?_—and he wondered if his lover's face reflected his own, if in fact it was _his_ face and _his_ longing that he beheld in John.

"Now would be the appropriate moment to change positions," Sherlock whispered, as he slowly pushed back at John so that he could turn himself over. John pulled the condom out of its wrapper and onto his penis, never letting his eyes wander from Sherlock's lanky body.

And then Sherlock was kneeling on his knees and forearms, exposing his pale, curved arse to John's gaze. John was reminded, not of another lover this time, but of the way that he had held this exact position the day before, and how Sherlock had come up from behind, then, to press his penis against the groove in John's buttocks. And suddenly John sensed the superimposition of those two roles—the receiver and the giver—and he _was_ Sherlock, then, as much as he was John. John was offering himself up, eager arse in the air, and he was also kneeling in front of Sherlock, in this original moment, today the 29th of December, when he was Doctor John Watson, lining his cock up with Sherlock's opening, using his fingers to urge apart the fragile sphincter.

And then they were breathing together, duplicates in breath and body; double negatives and blurred edges and a hall of reflecting mirrors. Sherlock fell open to John's fingers, and then to his cock, and John was in Sherlock, and Sherlock was in John, and the image contained only the two of them, this brief instant a fractal that emanated outwards and promised to repeat itself, again and again, urging itself towards infinity.

It was not strange to be inside Sherlock; exciting, potent, sexy, _yes_, but not strange. What was strange was to be inside Sherlock and to have Sherlock be inside _him_, all at once. What was strange was this uncanny merging of self and other, and then the unusual realisation—unusual for John—that he at last understood the expression _flesh of my flesh_, and why Narcissus fell in love with his own image, and why men loved men and women loved women, and how terrible it was that the tendency towards repetition in this kind of love could only ever be a _tendency_, and never made actual flesh. As John pulled out of Sherlock, to push back in again, he wished fervently that making love with Sherlock could lead to making something, or _someone_, and that this kind of love would not always be isolate and perfect, but that it would pass through the looking glass and come out on the other side, the side of cracked tea cups and worn jumpers and soiled nappies and first words and first steps. On the side of imperfection, that is; on the side of the fallen and the good.

He did not know if Sherlock would understand any of these sentiments, or if he would balk at John's sudden paternality, but in this week Sherlock had demonstrated a hitherto unknown capacity for empathy, at least when directed at John, and he might understand even more, given time. With this comforting thought, John continued to move in Sherlock, willing his lover to sense the meaning behind his motions. _I love you, I have you, you have me. _His thoughts became simple, linear, once the orgasm broke upon him, and he could only think of Sherlock.

Afterwards, when they were lying together, John thought about how strange it was that an orgasm should feel at once so timeless and yet so brief. It was as if, when he climaxed inside Sherlock, he touched eternity, and yet he knew rationally that that could not be, because as soon as he was there, hovering outside of time, the boundless horizon retreated from him and he was pulled back to earth and back to the hard friction of their bodies and the hard breaths of his lover and the hard clench of Sherlock's body, now separate and far away, though still encircling him. He returned to Time and to the isolation of his own body, which after all _was_ so very different from Sherlock's, so small and brown and almost stocky, when compared with Sherlock's long limbs and pale skin—and how could he have thought otherwise?

John's orgasm had arrived unexpectedly quickly, as if even his deep retreat into thought was not enough to contain the flow of his body and the impulse towards completion. He had gripped Sherlock's hips as he gave one final push before he was overcome by the sensation of floating, and timelessness, and oneness with Sherlock and with some future tiny creature who might be theirs too, one day.

"John," Sherlock said, repeating his name in response to the older man's groans: "John, John, John." It was a comfort, this act of comforting John through their bodies. _Odd, _thought Sherlock, _how I want more from this, more from him. Odd, how I feel that we could expend ourselves in thousands upon thousands of orgasms, and never be as close to each other as we desire. I want more of you, John Watson, and I say that even knowing that 'more' is not enough; that we will never find the completion that we are seeking. And still I will look for it, in you, and hope that you will keep looking for it in me._

"John." Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"I just want to say your name. John."

"Sherlock."

"This is _it,_ isn't it?"

John mumbled a quiet 'yes' before collapsing onto Sherlock.

They lay in a jumbled heap for several minutes, listening to the heartbeats and the breaths and the rustling of legs on sheets and lips brushing against each other. And it was very, very good, and not at all perfect, and they liked it best that way.


	20. Pax XX

**Author's Note: **

**I was helped in writing this today by the Met Opera's live radio broadcast of _Tosca_. Thanks to songstersmiscellany for her help with fleshing out the operatic conversation. I am a string player, not a vocalist, so any inconsistencies in my descriptions of opera are all my own.**

**"Neuropathy" is a neurological symptom that can occur from too much drug use (either prescribed or illicit), and it is characterized by numbness and tingling in different parts of the body, especially the fingers and toes. Prolonged cocaine use can lead to neuropathy, which would be especially undesirable for anyone who needs to use their fine motor skills often, like a violinist or other musician. **

**"Proprioception" is the sense that one has of one's body parts in relation to one another.**

**Syncsister: I am so enjoying your comments and wish that I could respond to them. Please feel free to send me an email at emmadelosnardos at gmail dot com so that I can respond more in depth. Ditto for anyone else who is anonymous; I'd love to hear from you and to be able to reply.**

* * *

><p><span>December 30th<span>

"How do you feel about opera?" Sherlock asked, over a late lunch at a ramen shop near the Museum of Modern Art. They had both been bored by the exhibit of Diego Rivera's workingman murals, and John hadn't been impressed by the de Kooning retrospective, either, though Sherlock had wanted to see it for a second time. They had retreated from Rivera's trite images of Mexican peasants and Detroit steel workers to grab a quick lunch before spending another afternoon at the U.N., tying up loose ends.

John pointed to the long string of noodles hanging out of his mouth, indicating that he couldn't answer.

"In general?" John responded at last.

"Yes."

"Can't say that I've had much experience with opera, apart from the occasional program that Harry dragged me to from time to time, the last time we were both living in London before I was deployed."

"Your sister likes opera?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Yes. She thought it made her look cultured if she attended once and a while. And as long as she wasn't dating anyone else, I, unfortunately, was her opera companion."

"Unfortunate because of her, or unfortunate because of the opera?"

John looked up from his soup. "Unfortunate because of her, Sherlock. Champagne during intermission, that kind of thing."

"She got drunk at the _opera_?" Sherlock asked, shocked.

"Not drunk, exactly…just a bit too ebullient. And then once the alcohol wore off a bit, she tended to fall asleep on my shoulder during the last act."

"How classy," Sherlock observed.

"Quite. So forgive me if I don't have the best impression of opera."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, interlacing his hands behind his head as he looked upon John with affection.

"Then I am the lucky one who gets to introduce you to the genre," Sherlock said. "That it, to opera the way it should be. As a spectacle_. For_ the audience, that is. Not a spectacle _in_ the audience." He cleared his throat and moved his forearms to rest on the table. "I think you'll like Baroque opera."

"I'm sure I will," John said, a bit dubiously. "But first: what do _you_ like about it, Sherlock?"

"Besides the cross-dressing and the _bel canto_ arias – you'll never hear richer voices – and the impossibly bifurcated plots, and the dramatic contrasts in the dynamics, and the—"

"OK, I get it, I get it."

"No, you _don't_," Sherlock contradicted. "I haven't even begun to explain. Opera, especially Baroque opera, is all about fantasy and performance and impossibilities. It's a way for us to inhabit, even if just temporarily, another world. To see the great human emotions – love, hate, jealousy, fear – depicted by larger-than-life characters. It's humanity at the extreme. Not unlike murder, if you look at it a certain way."

John almost dropped his chopsticks. "Opera is like murder?"

"There certainly are enough deaths in opera. The lovers' deaths of Aida and Radames; Mimi's death from consumption in _La __bohème_; Tosca's famous fall to her death…"

"None of those are murders, Sherlock."

"Perhaps not, but that's not the point, John. If you want operatic murders, we could start with Ulisse killing Penelope's suitors, or Tosca killing Scarpia, and don't forget about Siegfried in the Ring Cycle; he was quite murderous, that one. The point is that opera, like murder, is driven by the extremes of human emotion. And if you think that humans don't kill each other for love anymore, if you think that such hyperbolic behaviours went the way of damsels in distress, then a basic study in forensics will prove you wrong."

"I see. So, opera and murder. Bedfellows of sort. Lovely, Sherlock. But don't forget, you are talking to an ex-soldier here," John reminded him. "I'm quite familiar with the extremes of human emotion."

"So you should _love_ opera, John. It's perfect for people like us."

"Like _us_?"

"You know, the under-stimulated, counter-phobic, thrill-chasing sorts of people. Doctors and soldiers and detectives and sociopaths and—"

"You are not a sociopath, Sherlock." Sherlock laughed loudly.

"No, I'm not. But I might have been, if I hadn't had music." John tilted his head to look at him curiously.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Music stopped me from completely hating humankind." In a low voice, almost so low that John could not hear him, he continued. "And it stopped me from hating myself."

"Is that so?" John spoke softly, as if reluctant to interrupt Sherlock's train of thought.

"Yes. There was a time—"

Sherlock looked at John, holding the other man's gaze.

"You probably thought that I stopped using drugs because of the Work."

"Yes," John admitted. "You always implied as much."

"That wasn't why," Sherlock said. "Or rather, that wasn't the whole of it." He held his left arm out, unbuttoning his shirt at the wrist so that he could pull his sleeve up and reveal the scarred crook in his elbow to John.

"I know, Sherlock," John said. "Despite what you think, I'm not completely blind."

"You've never commented on them."

"I was raised to think that it's rude to comment on another's appearance. Especially if that appearance includes scars from injection drug use."

"I wouldn't have minded if you had asked," Sherlock said, almost with a pout.

"So I should have asked, then?"

"You might have," the detective said softly. _Yes, you __**should**__ have asked me. You should have asked me about something this important, because I know that this isn't the kind of thing that you could ever deduce about me, John Watson. Your powers of observation don't go that far, but like you have so often said to me, I don't want you to just deduce me, either. I don't want you to think, 'Sherlock, ex-junkie,' and then move on. I want you to ask me what went wrong, and what I did to make it right. I want—_

"Tell me now, Sherlock. What made you stop using?"

Sherlock blinked. "Odd," he said slowly. "That's not what people usually ask."

"What do they usually ask?"

"Why I _started_ using."

"That's the same story for everyone. Or nearly everyone. Some loss, some unsatisfied longing in your life, messed up neurotransmitters. Yes, I need to know about that, too, about why you started. But I find it more interesting to know what changed you. What made you _stop_ using. Because that's what makes you unique, you know. That's what -"

"It was the music," Sherlock interrupted. He grew quiet.

"The music?"

"Yes, the music, John. What don't you understand about that?"

"No need to snap at me."

"Sorry." Sherlock sighed. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me. The music—are you saying that you stopped using because of music?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand. You have to give me a little more, Sherlock."

"I stopped using because of the music. For physiological and psychological reasons."

John raised an eyebrow. "Physiological?"

"I developed peripheral neuropathy."

John let out a whistle. "In the fingers, I'm assuming."

"Yes."

"And so—so you couldn't play?"

"I had no control over my left hand. My vibrato sounded like a whining nanny goat." John laughed. "And I couldn't feel where my fingers were in relation to one another."

"Your proprioception was also affected," John noted.

"Exactly."

"So this meant that you were still playing violin throughout your addiction?"

"I don't know what idea you have of an addict, Doctor Watson, but I can assure you that I wasn't your typical one. I was working on Sibelius's violin concerto—"

"There's no typical addict. Just tell me about yourself. From what Mycroft and Lestrade have told me, I just thought-"

"Thought that I was really poorly off? Thought that I was wasting away in a hovel somewhere? Unconscious and lost to the world?" Sherlock frowned.

"Something like that, yes," admitted John.

"It wasn't like that, John, and before you can think that I'm 'in denial' about it all, let me explain."

"Go right ahead." John said, spreading a hand out in front of him as if urging Sherlock to continue.

"I was working on Sibelius's violin concerto. I was scheduled as the soloist for a Cambridge-based orchestra; quite a good group, I'll have you know, no ordinary student ensemble. I was several years out of Uni and had made a bit of a reputation for myself as a violinist. Gigs here and there, at Cambridge and in London, Edinburgh, the like. Mycroft and Mummy thought I'd pursue it further. And the coke helped, at first. Improved my concentration. Helped me stay alert for late-night rehearsals. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary there."

"Right."

"Right. It was winter, a morning rehearsal, when I began to notice the tingling in my fingers. I had taken an early train up to Cambridge, hadn't slept a wink all night. High as a kite. I arrived a few minutes before the concert mistress started to tune the orchestra. Oboist played her long A, and I went to tune my strings, just as usual. Noticed that my fingers were trembling. Fingertips were cold, etc. Typical symptoms of neuropathy, if I had known what to look for at the time. In any case, couldn't get a grip on the fine-tuners on the higher strings. Kept slipping and going flat. Passed my instrument to the concert mistress, told her my fingers were cold. She tuned my violin for me, as if I were a child again. Ridiculous. The rest of the rehearsal was a disaster."

"Were you able to play?"

"Yes and no. I feigned illness and left."

"Sounds embarrassing."

"To say the least."

"And then?"

"I thought the tingling would go away as soon as the drug was out of my system. And you know that it didn't of course."

"Neuropathy's not short-term, as side effects go."

"Right. Extrapyramidal dysfunction—no easy fix. Central nervous systems requires time to re-establish homeostasis. But I didn't know what was happening." He paused. "Before you look at me like that, John, consider: I was an addict. I didn't _want_ to know what was happening. I didn't do my research. Thought it would be fine once I came down from the high. And it very much was _not_ fine." Sherlock paused. "I couldn't play for a year," he said, almost as an afterthought.

"A year?" John asked, a bit shocked.

"Yes, a year. There went the Sibelius, there went the music. For one long, silent, lonely year. The year that I got clean."

"So you got clean because you wanted to be able to play again?"

"I got clean because I _needed_ to play again. I couldn't live without the music. Everything became very clear to me, that afternoon when I was riding the train back to London, my violin tucked away under my seat where no one could see it and comment on how lovely it was that I played. I knew then that I had to choose. I could live without the drugs; I had done it before. But I could not live without the music."

"Whew, Sherlock," John said. "That's intense." Sherlock shrugged.

"Not really. Not more so than anyone else's story of overcoming addiction."

"Yours is definitely more dramatic than most. Not everyone stops using because of art."

"It's more common than you think, John. The connection between art and intoxicants is long-established. Baudelaire, de Quincey, Wordsworth. Take your pick."

"You're talking about artists who _start_ using, Sherlock, not about those who _stop._ How many have driven themselves to suicide? Probably more than those who choose the art over the drug."

"You make me sound like some noble figure. The exception to the suicidal poet."

John reached out and took his hand. "You _are_ noble, Sherlock. And exceptional. Brave. Talented. You are an incredible person and it does not surprise me in the least that you would _stop_ using because of your art."

"Even if it's what started me using in the first place?"

"Even so." John sighed. "God, Sherlock, you have _no idea_ how amazing you are, do you? I mean, you know that you're a genius when it comes to solving crimes. We all know that. But can you really tell me that you had no idea how unusual it is to choose art and life over an addiction? That _that_ was the reason you stopped using? How extraordinary that makes you, that you were able to do that?"

"I am fortunate," Sherlock said carefully. "I had something that was worth living for. Or, something that I thought was worth living for, at the time."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never been able to play the same way again. The neuropathy is gone, but I don't have the same skill that I once had. And when I realized that I might never get it back, I was fortunate because that was around the time that I started to assist Lestrade. There were other things to keep me occupied, then. The Work, I mean."

A thought occurred to John, a hypothesis that he wanted to try out.

"Sherlock, is that why—is that why I never really heard you play until we'd been living together for a year? Is that why I only ever heard you sawing away at the violin at Mycroft? Because you couldn't play?"

Sherlock gave a little shake of the head. "What? _That?_ No, no, John, no _that. _I just wanted to annoy my brother."

"Was that really it?" John's voice was tender and hesitant.

"No, John, you're right. That wasn't it." Sherlock looked away from him, spinning a chopstick between his fingers with amazing dexterity.

"If you can do _that_ to a chopstick now," John said, pointing, "I can't imagine what you were like before the cocaine."

"Some people compared me to Paganini," Sherlock said.

"Not a bit humble, are you?" John asked.

"Why should I be?"

"Humility is becoming, you know."

"I do recognize my own limits, John. I said that people _compared_ me to Paganini. _Compared_: past tense. They wouldn't be able to say the same, now."

"But I have heard you play those Bach concertos, or whatever they were."

"The Sonatas and Partitas. The violin concertos are something else altogether, much lighter and more flippant. But you heard me playing the Sonatas and Partitas. Bach's solemn music. Music of loss. That's what I play now. Music of loss." Sherlock laughed bitterly.

"Music of loss?"

"Bach wrote those pieces after the death of his wife. At least, that's what some musicologists with an overactive imagination have said. But there's no denying that the Chaconne is one of the most melancholy pieces that was ever written for any instrument. And what is melancholy if it is not mourning for a lost object? That's what Freud would say."

"Forget what Freud would have to say on the subject. _You_ lost something, Sherlock, with the drugs. I had no idea you were so talented. And though I'm not a musician – my clarinet playing never amounted to much – I think I do have some idea of what it's like to lose a skill that you have, a skill that you've worked years to acquire."

_Of course you know, _Sherlock thought to himself. _Of course you know what it's like to lose your abilities at something. Your shoulder, the injury, your tremor. You __**know**__ John, and I continually forget that about you. You have seen and lived through so much, and anything that I have lost or anything that I have ever wanted, you have probably lost something similar, or wanted something similar, and that is why we are so right for each other. Because the missing pieces in our hearts correspond._

To John, Sherlock said, "I know you know what it's like, John. You lost so much when you were invalided."

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes wide and blue and honest.

"Yes. I lost so much, Sherlock, and I was so alone. And then I met you. And the rest, as they say—"

"No trite words, John. I know the rest." Sherlock took John's other hand, so that their fingers were now intertwined.

Sherlock grinned at him. John looked at his watch. "Speaking of loss, I think it's time that we headed up to the medical school before we lose any more time."

"The dead aren't in any hurry, Sherlock," John joked. "But you're right, my friend probably wouldn't appreciate us turning up too late. The last thing I want to do is keep him there all night with us and a hundred dead bodies."

"Exactly." Sherlock stood to leave, releasing John's hands as he did so. "The dead can wait, but the living cannot." Sherlock paid at the register, then turned to wink at John. "Are you coming?"


	21. Pax XXI

Later that night, when they were riding down Riverside Avenue in a yellow cab, John looked out at the dark stretch of river below them. Beyond, the lights of New Jersey sparkled on the opposite shore. Sherlock was talking loudly and enthusiastically about the cadavers that they had seen at the medical school. He had his theories about each one of them and, like Molly Hooper, he had the remarkable ability to keep each body straight in his head.

"…it was quite possible, don't you think, that number 27 died of asphyxiation? What do you think it was? Carbon monoxide poisoning?"

"I said it before and I'll say it again, Sherlock, I don't know why you didn't just look at the cause-of-death on their records."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"That was the whole point of going there, Sherlock."

Sherlock patted his chest. "I know their family histories. I have the rest of the records here. I'll look through them later."

"Where did you get the records?" Sherlock shut his eyes wearily.

"Dr. Berthiaume."

"You stole them, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked down his nose at John.

"They were computer print-outs."

"You stole them," John accused.

"Wrong," Sherlock said smugly, opening his coat to bring out a folded stack of papers. "Berthiaume gave them to me just as we were leaving. You had left for the loo by then. You know, John, occasionally people _do_ give me things without my asking for them. Or stealing them."

"Sorry," John muttered. "It's just – remember, that first night, 'Welcome to London!' You had Lestrade's ID, after all. Not to mention what you do with Mycroft's."

"Just because I am an accomplished pickpocket, doesn't mean that I'll steal things when a polite word works just as well. And in this case, the doctor was practically _begging_ me to take the records home and examine them. He had a few suspicions about numbers 27 and 43. Coroner's reports said suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning; he thinks otherwise."

"Any reason why you didn't mention this earlier?"

"As I said, you were in the loo."

"I wasn't in there _that_ long."

"Long enough for Dr. Berthiaume to ask me how we had met."

"I caught that part of the conversation," John reminded him.

The wing of the hospital that housed the morgue was dedicated to research and, as such, was fairly deserted when they had arrived there in the early evening. John was curious to see what kind of hospital was hosted by one of the famed Ivy League universities, but the facilities were not much different from what he had come to expect from the NHS: drab paint, linoleum floors, and filing cabinets that looked like they had been installed forty years earlier.

Dr. Berthiaume had greeted them at the corner of 168th Street and Fort Washington; he was a tall, bearish man with a black beard, grey hair, and tired brown eyes. John had shaken his hand, introducing himself and Sherlock, whom he described as his "work partner."

"My brother told me about you," Dr. Berthiaume said in response. "You solve crimes, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And you are a pathologist, I assume? Military?"

The older doctor laughed deeply. "Third generation navy doctor. Former navy, I should say. I got out after the Gulf Wars. My brother stayed in." Dr. Berthiaume led them across the street to the Irving Building. "But then you knew that already, didn't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes. You teach Gross Anatomy to the first-year medical students. Perfected your skills as a pathologist on the battle field; now you sift through the bodies of the aged and infirm and teach young students how to make spinal incisions and peel back dermal tissue and—"

"Did he go to medical school?" Dr. Berthiaume asked John.

"No," John responded. "He's just very—" he coughed. "—well read."

"My university studies were primarily in organic chemistry," Sherlock clarified. "Which, as you know, requires some understanding of biology if it is to be put to practical purposes."

"And Dr. Watson says that you're an expert in poisons?"

"Just so. Poisons, anaesthesia, and pharmacology."

"Is that common, in the British course in chemistry?"

Sherlock glanced over at the American. "Common?" He raised an eyebrow. "Hardly."

"I thought as much," Dr. Berthiaume muttered. "Come on, you two odd ducks. You'll like what we have here." He swiped a plastic card at the side of the building's entrance, then led John and Sherlock on a serpentine path to the dissection laboratory.

The room was as large as a gymnasium and nearly as high as one; in contrast to the rest of the building, it was well-illuminated from above and the acoustics were impeccable; John could hear the brush of Sherlock's pants as he strode ahead of the other two, intently examining a row of tables spread out before them.

"How many are there?" Sherlock asked loudly, turning around with his hands folded behind his back.

"Sixty tables and sixty cadavers," Dr. Berthiaume said, spreading his hands out and gesturing towards the tables where the body bags lay.

"How much time do we have?" Sherlock asked. He pulled something out of his pocket—the gold watch that John had given him—and looked at its face.

"Two hours," the pathologist said.

Sherlock glanced up at John. "We had better get started," he said.

"We?" John asked, cocking his head. "What do you want _me_ to do?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Dr. Berthiaume interrupted. "A few ground rules, first. Number one: gloves and scrubs are over there." He pointed to a row of closets on the far wall. "Two: you can open the body bags, but you can't turn the bodies over. Some of them weigh close to two hundred pounds—"

"That's about fourteen stone to you," Sherlock said to John. John whistled.

"And they are very delicate. I don't want any damage to the bodies before the students get to them."

"Agreed," Sherlock said curtly. "Now, if there are two hundred bodies, and we have only two hours, we have to make some choices. Dr. Berthiaume, I presume that you have a list of their causes of death?" The American nodded. "Good. I shall require the numbers of those who died by violent means. Homicide, suicide."

"Any accidents you want to see?" Dr. Berthiaume asked. "We have a few of those, too."

"Are they badly dismembered?"

"They wouldn't be here if they were. Minimal trauma to the head, that kind of thing. Lethal but not disfiguring."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "I don't want to look at any vascular deaths, nothing pulmonary or to the internal organs. No cancers, no wasting diseases. Nothing we can't see from a simple exterior inspection."

"Anything else that I can find for you?" Dr. Berthiaume narrowed his eyes and grinned slyly at Sherlock.

"A murder would be excellent," Sherlock said, grinning back at the man. "A good old-fashioned _murder_."

"I'll see what I can pull up. In the meanwhile, gentlemen, I suggest you change into your scrubs in the locker room over there, and when you're ready I'll point you in the right direction. The bags are numbered."

As Sherlock turned towards the locker room, John followed Dr. Berthiaume over to the row of computers at the opposite side of the room.

"I'm sorry about his—uh, his _attitude_, for lack of a better term for it."

"Quite used to that in this line of work," the pathologist assured him. "Gallows humour, you know. Keeps us sane doing what we do."

"Yeah," John agreed. "I don't know you do it, honestly. Working with dead bodies all day."

Dr. Berthiaume let out a loud laugh. "I'd say the same to you. I'd take the dead over the living any day. The dead can't harm us, as my father used to say."

"Indeed."

"Now, let me check through these records, find those deaths he was looking for. Might be a bit tricky. Not many homicides are intact. And suicides – not the types to donate their bodies to science, in most cases, unless the decision was made long before their lives took a tailspin."

"How, uh," John began, wondering how to phrase his question. "How do you get the bodies?"

"Donation." The American looked at him sharply. "How did you think we got them?"

"One hears stories," John said, laughing grimly.

"Of Chinese villagers and desperate Indian peasants? Please." He laughed. "We're not in the business of organ donation here. You'll see. These folks are definitely American; you can tell by their size and their tattoos." He smiled. "Most of them are old. Most died from natural causes. And most are unhealthy—smokers and alcoholics—otherwise they would have had their organs harvested for transplant. In other words: intact, sick, old American bodies. Sixty of them."

"Sixty bodies and one Sherlock Holmes," John said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he finds a few things you didn't know about."

"He wouldn't be the first," the pathologist admitted. "We get 'unintentional deaths" here all the time; family members are, unsurprisingly, reluctant to admit to others—much less to themselves—that a loved one has taken her own life."

"So what do you do if you learn that a death was a suicide and not an accident?"

"Nothing. The coroner's report has already been filed. We'll provide the families with a record of the findings of the dissection, if they ever request it." He chewed on his lower lip. "In the decade since I started teaching this course, we've only had four requests for those records."

"Better to let the dead lie sleeping, eh?" John asked.

"That's what most people believe," Dr. Berthiaume confirmed. "Dead and gone, dead to the world, dead and buried, passed away, passed on. They want to forget. Hell, _everyone_ wants to forget death. But, as the poet said, even if we cannot stop for Death, Death will kindly stop for us. Eventually."

"Do _you_ ever forget about death?" John asked. He had always been curious about the kinds of people who were drawn to pathology. Some surely went into the field because of their fear of interacting with—and perhaps harming—the living. Others—and Molly Hooper was likely among them—because they couldn't stand the pain of watching patients suffer. _If you can't stand pain, _an instructor at St. Bart's had once told him,_ then get your arse on over to Pathology. _John, thinking that he was being clever, had asked the instructor if anaesthesiology weren't a better field for people who hated pain. "_If you're an anaesthesiologist_," the instructor had replied, "_then your patients are nearly always in pain. And then those painkillers might start to look pretty damn tasty to you, too. If you don't drink yourself to death, first."_

John missed, in his practice at the clinic, the way that it felt to work in a large hospital, on or off the battlefield, where there were specialists and teams and _types_, for gods sake, of doctors. The surgeons were one type, the psychiatrists another, and he missed the old game of guessing which subspecialty a colleague belonged to, or which school had trained her.

It was pleasant to stand there laughing at Dr. Berthiaume's dark humour, and remember how he had once dissected a body, too, in his student days at St. Bart's, and how he and his mates had learned to greet death with laughter, to unsettle Thanatos with their frankness and joviality. John had never laughed as much, or drank as much, or had as much sex, as he had the term he studied anatomy.

Heading over to the locker room, where Sherlock had recently emerged, John thought about Sherlock's obvious penchant for death. _When did it begin?, _he wondered. _With the first death, the boy in the swimming pool? Or did it begin even earlier, at that moment when he realized, as all of us must, that even his blazing mind would go out like a candle, some day? _John thought of another epithet for death, death as the Great Leveller, and he laughed to think that, for Sherlock, anything that put him on the same plane as the rest of humankind would necessarily be viewed by him with derision and contempt.

He had never asked Sherlock about religion, or about the afterlife, not even to see if Sherlock believed in such things. John had presumed that a man as rational as Sherlock could only be agnostic, or perhaps, like Pascal, hedging his bets so that, in the most important wager of all, he came down on the right side. John had accompanied Sherlock to the morgue at St. Bart's any number of times; he had discovered heads and toes and various corporal ephemera in their refrigerator; and he had stood by, frustrated and hurt, when Sherlock had mourned Irene's death—a death which was, John now knew, only another slight of hand in that woman's game. John had been with Sherlock in the presence of death many times before, and yet it was not until he was in the anatomy laboratory at Columbia Presbyterian, surrounded by body bags and cadavers, about to pull on a pair of green scrubs, that John was struck by how carefully they had both avoided the topic.

They both knew that they could die, in their line of work. The threat of death had the effect, like a strong stimulant, of clarifying one's vision. Life became very meaningful and very beautiful, all awash in colours and baubles and sensations, when one was about to lose it.

There was the night when John had shot the cabbie, thinking that Sherlock was about to take the wrong pill. And then, not long after, another night, when he was tied to a chair and a sick woman with a sick mind was prepared to shoot an arrow through his heart. He could not overlook the Golem, either, and the way the beastly man had thrown Sherlock to the ground like a china doll, as the lights from the planetarium flickered overhead like a deathly disco. Then there was Jim Moriarty, the semtex vest, and the same pool where Sherlock had first learned about death.

Four deaths—or almost-deaths—in as many months. Four occasions when gratitude transformed his life, and then there was a fifth, when Sherlock had solved the riddle of the safe and the American's gun had pulled away from its heavy place on his neck and left him free again. That time, as with every time his life had almost been lost, the resultant freedom was sweet and arousing. But there was a difference, that afternoon in Irene's house. John knew, from the fear on Sherlock's face and the desperation in the detective's voice, that if the other man pulled the trigger, than more than John's life would be lost.

By then, John had fallen in love with Sherlock, with the man who could bring him to the edge of danger and pluck him out of it just as surely and swiftly. And he thought that Sherlock might love him back, just for an instant he had that hope, when he smelled the fear on Sherlock, heard him cry their secret words—"Vatican cameos!"—and then they were rolling over and ducking bullets and grabbing weapons and shooting, and John thought that Sherlock might be in it with him.

But then he was running upstairs after Sherlock and Irene followed them, still wearing Sherlock's coat, ridiculously oversized on her, and—John did not want to remember it, now. He did not want to remember how Sherlock had writhed on Irene's floor, but unbidden the image came to him, of Irene retreating with her riding crop, her words a warning: _Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit; it makes for a very unattractive corpse._ There _had_ been a corpse like that, in Dr. Berthiaume's laboratory, an old man who had died in exactly that way. And others with similarly gruesome and familiar deaths.

John reflected on all of this, and more, as the cab cut a brisk path down the west side of Manhattan. Sherlock nestled against the side of the other door, silent and contemplative as he observed the ornate mansions along Riverside Drive. John looked west, at the lights over the river, and thought of Charon, and poor Eurydice, and Orpheus who went after her with song and lyre sweet enough to steal her away from the underworld.

Music had also been Sherlock's protection against death, his call to life. But what would happen if music failed him, as it might, one day? Would there be any incantation strong enough to pull Sherlock back from the land of the dreaming, that halfway point to death? Would John's hands know how to mend and resurrect a man who didn't want to be saved, for whom oblivion might best cruel wakefulness?

_It wasn't Sherlock who choked. It wasn't Sherlock who overdosed. It wasn't Sherlock who fell_, John repeated to himself. He reached out to clasp Sherlock's hand—_Sherlock's __**living**__ hand_, he reminded himself—but the detective squirmed out of John's reach, distracted. His fingers beat the Chaconne onto the leather seats of the cab while John, opposite and isolate, shook with silent sobs.


	22. Pax XXII

**Some nice sexy times to get you through the weekend.**

**If smut isn't your cuppa, I suggest skipping this section. Otherwise, have at it!**

**I don't know what my muse got up to today. She was feeling a bit frisky. Probably thanks to reading Mirith Griffin's story, "Control, Alt, Delete," for the second time. Thank you, MG.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock reached across the seat for John's hand.<p>

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked roughly.

John let out the breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. His chest felt tight, and he prayed that his eyes would look dry to Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock looked up, concerned. "John? What is it?"

"I don't know if I can explain it, Sherlock."

"That's odd," Sherlock commented. The side of his mouth twitched. "You're usually the one who wants to talk about everything." They were arriving at the Hudson Hotel, and Sherlock reached into his coat to pull out a few bills for the cabbie, releasing John's hand. He took it up again when they were inside, the hotel's long escalator bringing them up to the lobby. It was a quick trip from the lobby to their room, and Sherlock did not let go of John's hand again until the door was shut behind them and Sherlock had led John to sit next to him on the sofa.

Sherlock positioned himself so that he could keep holding John's hand, while using his other hand to stroke the hair back from the older man's face.

"Are you having a flashback?" Sherlock asked with concern. He hadn't had to do this before, calm down John during a flashback. _No, that's not true,_ the detective corrected himself. _There was that night, oh when was it? March, that first year we lived together. I was out late – later than usual – and when I came back to Baker Street, John was screaming in his room. The sight: his body, wrapped tightly in his sheets and quilts, struggling to free himself from their bondage, rocking back and forth until I lay onto top of him, calming him with the weight of my body. He felt so warm and alive under me; I couldn't believe that he had been in the throes of terror just minutes earlier. And then he woke up, and pulled away from me, ashamed and scolding, shouting at __**me**__ to leave, when I was the one who had helped him._

"Not a flashback, Sherlock," John said, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall of the sofa. Sherlock's chilly fingers, soft on his face and in his hair, were reassuring, if a bit uncharacteristic in their application. Sherlock was much likelier to use his fingers to probe, pinch, intrude, unwrap, prick, or squeeze; the comfort they now gave to John was unexpected.

_No, not so unexpected, _John thought, remembering how Sherlock had comforted Sarah, that night when they were kidnapped by the Chinese gang. He had seen Sherlock in that mode any number of times, but John had always dismissed it as another one of Sherlock's acts, the detective assuming the socially appropriate position whenever it behoved him to act the part of the concerned rescuer. Now, with Sherlock's fingers in his hair, John's thoughts went to that night, in his second month at Baker Street, when he had awoken from a vicious nightmare to find himself enveloped in Sherlock's coltish limbs, his body secured against the mattress by the firm pressure of Sherlock's torso against his back.

_He knew how to calm me, then, _John thought. _And I pushed him away, frightened by his presence in my bedroom. I was wrapped in so many layers, but I had never felt so, so naked in my life. He saw everything. He saw right through me – saw my fear, my desperation, and then my anger and my arousal. I couldn't forgive him for it, and I pushed him off, swore at him, and he ran out of my room. We never spoke about it. Still haven't._

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, love?" John's breath caught in his throat again, hearing that word on Sherlock's lips.

"Do you remember the night when I had a nightmare and you came in and lay on top of me?"

Sherlock's smile had a trace of sadness to it. "Yes, I remember, John. Funny, I was just thinking of the same night."

"Hmmm." John rubbed his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles. "I misjudged you, then. And I think I've misjudged you, since." The detective raised an eyebrow at his words. John began again. "You were trying to help me that night. I know what you were doing: holding me down so that I wouldn't struggle any further and hurt myself in the process."

"You still had a limp at that point, need I remind you?"

"Right. The limp. And the shoulder. All of it – I was broken. And you held me as if you were swaddling me, damn it!"

"In diverse cultures – Inner Mongolia, for instance, as well as among the Quechua of Peru and Bolivia – infants are swaddled in order to simulate the close environment of the womb. They find it soothing."

"That's exactly my point. _You knew what to do, Sherlock!_"

"Of course I did." Sherlock gazed at John, cocking his head to one side in wonderment.

"I wouldn't have expected it of you. Or, I believed that even if you knew about such a thing, that your knowing about it and your putting that knowledge into practice were two different things altogether. But that's where I've been wrong. This is what I'm trying to explain, if you let me finish. You knew how to make Sarah feel better when you rescued us from Madame Chan. You knew what to do when you found me, about to shit myself, in the cage at Baskerville. You knew how to wake me from a nightmare without ending up with a punch to your face or dislocating my shoulder. You _knew_ all of this, Sherlock, and I never acknowledged it!"

"John." Sherlock leaned towards John until their foreheads were touching. His hands came up to cradle John's face, and before John could say another word, Sherlock had deposited a tender, fleeting kiss on John's open mouth. John pushed into the kiss, grabbing at Sherlock's coat sleeves as the detective pushed him down onto the cushions, until John was lying flat on the sofa, his shod feet dangling off one end, and Sherlock's legs were twined between his.

"Fuck, our _shoes!_" John said, laughing. Sherlock eased one shoe off with the toe of the other, and John followed suit. Their shoes fell to the floor, followed by two pairs of dark socks. Then they were kissing again, Sherlock's body heavy against John's chest, and John had wrapped his hands around Sherlock's narrow hips, bringing their groins together until he could feel the detective's building erection nudging against his own.

"Are you swaddling me now, Sherlock?" John asked with a cheeky grin, pulling back from Sherlock's kisses so that he could look at his lover's face. Sherlock's hair was mussed, his lips red and chapped and swollen, and both of them were buried under the soft folds of the Belstaff, as if Sherlock had kept it on to ward against a phantom gale.

"This is _not_ what one does to an infant," Sherlock said meaningful, grinding his hips against John's thighs.

"No, but it _does_ feel a lot like what you did that night, after I had the dream. God, Sherlock, do you know how much you startled me, when you lay down on me like that?"

"I thought that I was helping you." Sherlock bent down to kiss John's neck. His lips traced a light path from John's right ear to his Adam's apple. John smelled of disinfectant, and the night air, and pine-scented shampoo. Sherlock unbuttoned the top of the other man's coat and slid the zipper down as far as it would go, his hand grazing over John's stomach before wandering up to rest on his chest, over the jumper.

"Geez, you might have helped me more —" John began, "— if you weren't so bloody attractive."

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and flung it over the side of the sofa. He returned to John's lap, gently dropping his head down again so that it rested against the older man's neck. He began to suckle at the smooth skin underneath John's chin, his tongue moving upwards until he found the rough expanse beneath John's mouth, and then Sherlock's mouth was on his again, and John felt a jolt of heat in his chest as their tongues found each other.

Sherlock kissed him eagerly, loudly, his lips smacking and biting and tugging at John's mouth as his hands ran up and down John's chest, looking for the edge of his jumper so that he could work his hands up and under. He clenched John's shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, until the younger man's cool fingers were trailing a line upwards, following the path of hair that led to the centre of his chest.

"Get – this – _off_," Sherlock muttered, urging John to sit up so that he could pull the jumper off of him. Then he cradled John's face in his hands and led him down, settling him once more against the cushions of the sofa. His hands went to work immediately on the buttons of his shirt, and then he asked John to sit up again, and tugged at the sleeves until John was bare-chested, then laid him back down again. Sherlock hovered over him, his thighs spread wide around John's hips, and he examined the body of his lover.

The scar caught his attention, like it did every time they were together. Once they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock thought he might ask John to walk around the flat without his shirt, make it a regular habit of his. It would be such a _nice_ way to start the day, if John were to come down to the kitchen – Sherlock always pictured himself rising before John – wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms and slippers. And Sherlock would be sitting at the table, perusing the day's newspapers, pretending not to notice John until the doctor padded across the room to open the refrigerator. Then Sherlock might sneak up behind him, and envelope John's naked chest in his arms, and kiss the back of his neck, and press him against the counter, or the door of the refrigerator, reaching his hands downwards to untie the string on John's pyjamas, until –

But first, he would lavish attention on John's scar. As he was about to do.

His fingers grazed over the taut skin of the cicatrize, pale and unnaturally smooth. John jerked his shoulder, at once wanting to turn away from the sensation and push into it, too. A titanium plate was still in John's shoulder, though the two ends of the clavicle had long since knit back together. Whenever John gave the word, it would be removed, but he hadn't done so yet; this omission interested Sherlock. Did John _want_ the metal in his body? Did John wear it as a badge of pride, the foreign object a reminder of his time in foreign lands? There would still be a scar to mark the wound, once the plate was removed. _So why doesn't John take it out?_ Sherlock wondered, not for the first time.

Sherlock knew that, underneath the plate, there was also a cluster of slender wires connecting the coracoid process to the scapula, lines invisible to his eyes or fingers. He imagined what it must have looked like, when the surgeons had opened John's shoulder to extract the bullet, and had found shards of bone and shredded tendons and sinews, all an impossible tangle. Yet _someone_ had put him back together, had drilled the screws through the plate and into the collarbone while John was sleeping the blessed sleep of morphine. Someone had rolled his bed out of the surgical theatre, back to his room in the army hospital – a nurse or orderly, perhaps? He wished, suddenly and irrationally, that _he _had been the one to care for John, in what must have been such long and lonely months, before the discharge.

It troubled Sherlock that _so much_ had happened to John before they had known each other. _Will there never be a time when I know __**all**__ about you?_ Sherlock asked. _Or will I forever be catching up on your scars, your bruises, all of the foreign objects that have passed by and through and inside your body? _

His fingers lingered over the shoulder, light touches so as to not trigger the response that, he knew by now, could so easily bring the pain back to John's face. That had happened, a few days ago, when they were lying in bed together after sex, and Sherlock's nails had brushed too firmly against John's scar, and John had wrested his body away from Sherlock's, cursing as he did so.

Now, underneath him, John looked so peaceful, and yet so vulnerable, too. Sherlock had never before had a body – a _living_ body, that is – so thoroughly at his disposal. It made him feel heady and powerful and oh so very much alive, to know that he was about to make this kind, unassuming man come undone with only his hands and his mouth.

Sherlock reached for John's belt and fly, opening the gray trousers just enough to ease his hands between the rough sides of the zipper. John's cock was full and heavy underneath his pants, and Sherlock easily found the slit in the cloth that permitted his hands to slide inwards and around John's erection, soft skin on impossibly soft skin.

John gasped. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, love," Sherlock murmured. "Let me take care of this for you. Lie back. Relax. Imagine what would have happened if I had done _this_ to you, after the nightmare. Imagine how that night might have ended."

"It couldn't have ended that way," John panted. "Not that early."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide before he bent close and took John's mouth in his own. His right hand stroked up and down the length of John's shaft, finding a rhythm that was not quite metronomically sound but which seemed to arouse John into even further franticness.

"Let me have my fantasy," Sherlock breathed into his mouth. "Let us imagine what it would have been like, that night, if instead of you throwing me out of your room, you have spread your legs for me—_yes_, John, pull off your trousers. Yes! Like that. The pants, too." He removed his hands from John's cock so that the other man could divest himself of his clothing.

"What were you saying, Sherlock?" John asked. Now he _was _spread out under Sherlock, his legs urging themselves more widely apart as if he wished to expose every centimetre of pale skin to Sherlock's inspection.

"As I was saying, my dear Watson," Sherlock continued. "How might things have been different for us, if instead of unceremoniously dumping me on the floor, you had invited me into your bed?"

"Were you thinking of that, then?" John asked.

"What do you think?"

"You're –" John gasped as Sherlock's fingers, now wet with saliva, slowly stretched his foreskin. "You're – having me – on."

"Now, _why _would I do that?" the younger man drawled. He ran the pad of his index finger over John's glans, pausing when he came to the leaking hole at the apex of his penis.

"Because you want to fuck me," John said. He put his hands over Sherlock's, willing the detective to stop his motions. Sherlock rose up slightly, creating a few inches of space between the two of them as his eyes darted back and forth, now passing over John's face, now his groin.

"And what does that mean to _you_?" Sherlock asked breathily.

"I – Sherlock, _God_, you know I'd let you – but not tonight. Not now. I –"

"Shh," Sherlock said, kissing John into silence. "I know what you are going to say, and I don't want you to say it. I don't want you to tell me _no_, so I'll stop you before you go any further. I want you to tell me _yes._ _Yes_ to me loving you, _yes _to my hands and my foot and my arm and my face and any other part belonging to a man – you can have it all. _Todo lo que tengo, yo te lo entrego. Hasta la más médula de mi ser, hasta el dolor que llevo adentro, todo lo que es mío también te pertenece a ti. No me lo niegues. __Yes_ to you inside me, like you were the other night. _Yes_ to _all_ of it, John, and before you can say no –"

Sherlock sat up, and John scarcely had time to protest his absence before the detective had shed his clothes and had lain back down on John, stretching his long body over the doctor, as if by covering every inch of John Watson's body with his body, Sherlock Holmes might stave off whatever negation he feared from his lover.

"This is what I am going to do, John," Sherlock panted, still looking down into the doctor's dark eyes. "We are going to move to the bedroom. You are going to lie down on the bed, just as you are right now. Not a jot different. And while you lie there, I am going to get the lube and –"

"_Stop!_" John grunted, trying to sit up. "And let's go in there already!" He shoved Sherlock aside, bounding off of the sofa and across the room in one smooth movement, leaving Sherlock behind to follow him with his eyes.

Sherlock unfolded his long limbs and ran after John, who quite obediently had resumed his previous posture and was lying, his legs spread wide, on the large bed.

Opening the drawer at the nightstand, Sherlock found the bottle of lube and a condom.

"Just the lube," John said, noticing what Sherlock had in his hands. Sherlock gave him a quizzical expression.

"But it's—I thought you might not like – it can get messy, afterwards."

"We're both clean, aren't we?" John asked. "Just grab a towel."

Sherlock threw himself off the bed, darting to the bathroom and returning with a fluffy white towel.

"Up," he said, motioning to John to lift his hips. John eagerly obliged, and Sherlock spread the towel under him.

"Are you going to – are you going to let me come in you?" John asked. He worried, for an instant, that it might all be over too quickly, if they didn't use the condom. But then again, he was a man of a certain age, and it had been a long time since he had lost control of himself like that. He trusted that he'd survive this next encounter.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, throwing himself over John once more. John had not thought that it was possible to spread his legs any wider, but there were Sherlock's hands, urging them apart, and his lover's mouth had found his left testicle, and was that – _yes, it most certainly was Sherlock's finger, rubbing at the outside of his anus. _

"I am going to put my finger into your arse—can you feel where my hands are right now?" John reached down to feel Sherlock's hand; they were where Sherlock had said they would be, at the base of his perineum, sliding ever lower.

"Gggrrr."

John wanted to beg for Sherlock to take his cock into his mouth again; he wanted to feel the wet warmth of those lips, curled around his glans. But Sherlock continued to nibble at his balls, pulling gently at the hair that surrounded them, as one slick finger found its way into John's tight entrance.

"That is so fucking _strange_, Sher, and I can't say _what_ it feels like, but if you stop, I swear I am going to—" He could feel his muscles clench around the finger inside him, and he still felt that it was strange, as if the finger shouldn't be there, but it was so smooth and persistent, throbbing up and into him with such a constant rhythm, that John began to anticipate it, and almost despite himself, he began to move against it, marvelling at the unusual sensations produced by Sherlock's hands, inside and out.

"Now I want you to squeeze some lube into your hands," Sherlock directed him, sliding up and taking John's cock into his mouth again. John groaned but when Sherlock pulled away with a clinging 'pop,' John filled his palm with lubricant and waited for his next instruction.

"Now," Sherlock continued, lifting his mouth away from John, who felt the loss intensely, before coming to kneel over him once again. "I want you to prep me. Like you did before. Reach up between my legs-oooh, _yes yes yes. Fuck it, YES. _John. I—" But then Sherlock was babbling incoherently, because John's finger was in _his_ arse, and Sherlock had forgotten, in the novelty of having a little part of himself inside John, what it had felt to have John inside _him._ John's fingers, _those brilliant, steady hands,_ thought Sherlock, _Yes, you darling man, yes, that's it, yes, thick fingers, thick cock, yes, exactly so, you are a quick study. I knew you would be. _Sherlock leaned forward, his chest grazing against John's as he supported himself on his forearms and let John continue his persistent exploration of his sphincter. The good doctor learned, in a scant minute, that Sherlock enjoyed a wandering, erratic touch just on the inside, in that soft first centimetre of tissue. John ventured another finger inside, along the first, and Sherlock jolted forward in surprise before pushing back against John again.

"Keep doing—" Sherlock panted, droplets of sweat forming at his temple, "—what you were doing. Very soon I am going to impale myself on you."

John felt his cock twitch in response to Sherlock's words. "It had better be soon," he said huskily.

It was almost _too_ soon, for before John had finished speaking, Sherlock had risen up and off of John's fingers, and John felt the other man's hands around his cock, leading it into position.

For an instant, John feared that Sherlock was too tight, that he hadn't given himself enough time to get ready, but then, as Sherlock eased himself onto John, he realized that Sherlock must have wanted it a little rough. _If anything,_ he managed to think before the blood left his brain, _if anything, he held back because of __**me**__, to give me the time I needed to get used to this again. This wildness, this incredible intimacy. It's too much for me, all at once. So he paced me. He led me. He let me—_

Then John could not think any more, or if he thought, his thoughts were sensations and perceptions, preverbal consciousness, no words at all, for Sherlock was indeed impaled on him, and apparently quite determined to ride him for all he was worth. The sight of Sherlock over him, urging them both onwards, the long cock of his lover dangling between the two of them, almost pushed John over the edge. He could feel the orgasm building at the base of his pelvis, and he willed it to stay there for just a few seconds longer, so that he could reach his hands up to Sherlock's face, and turn it towards him, and see Sherlock's eyes blown wide with arousal and amazement.

"_Fuck_ me, John," he pleaded.

John reached a hand between the two of them, wrapping his fingers and palm around Sherlock's ruddy penis.

"Like this?"

"Like that. Yes, John. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._"

"I _am_ fucking you, Sherlock," John said, laughing. "I am fucking you and in an instant you are going to come all over both of us, and then I am going to come inside you, and I am a fucking _fool_, Sherlock. _I love you._" The doctor gave another push, more gently, so as to not tear Sherlock apart, but Sherlock did not like his lover's reticence, and he protested by pushing more firmly down against John.

"You said you were going to fuck me," Sherlock said in a low voice. "So fuck me already. Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you love me."

"I'm going to hurt you, Sherlock," John protested.

"You won't."

"Then you deserve what's coming to you." In one determined motion, John pressed more deeply into Sherlock, and when he was in to the hilt, he grabbed his lover's hips and pulled him even closer, so that he could spin Sherlock around. Now on top, John looked down at Sherlock, who was gazing up at him with an expression of shock.

"You didn't expect that, did you?"

"No," Sherlock panted.

"I am going to fuck you," John repeated. "Like you said. _Hard_." He accentuated that final word with a violent thrust that caused Sherlock to whimper beneath him and roll his head to the side.

"Like that," he said. "Just like _that_. Don't stop, John, just – touch me while you're doing that?"

John reached between them and took Sherlock in his hand, pulling on his shaft as he watched his own cock move in and out of the younger man. The sight was spectacular, watching them join and move and come together and pull apart and come together again. It was spectacular, and over far too quickly, for Sherlock wanted to be overcome by John's will just as much John wanted to mould Sherlock into something of his own.

When the little death came upon them, in successive turns, Sherlock first and then John, they were both reminded of that _other_ death, the one they had first known together, the first night that John had helped Sherlock to solve a crime.

Still entwined together, with John now pulling careful out of Sherlock, neither would voice that thought. Rather, they clung more tightly to each other, more desperate after orgasm than before the release, desperate to hold each other and kiss each other and touch each other's damp, messy hair, to prolong the touch and the desire and the union before both of them were pulled, hungry yet exhausted, into sleep.

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><p><strong><em>Thank you <em>to all of the kind comments thus far from syncsister, SeenaC, skyfullofstars, Mirith Griffin, leew1, Dark Knightress, NivalKenival, Zarra Rous, Aubre Rose, raven612, power0girl, Terrier, murdoke, Lady Ginger, haveacreamteaonme, thedaringkurtsie, , tsukinoblossom, TearfullPixie, ineedthegooddoctor, crazycookBekah, YaoiFreak4Life, Cumberbitch99, Elphie21, dioscuri2, Baow, daysofstorm, khorazir, bluegirl, Soapiefan, LexeeTee, thisisforyou, woooo, NebulousBlender, ladyunebarton, bandnerd21, The Last Mile, I-am-the-Wolf, CarefulSteps, ContntlBreakfst, CKerased, Blue TARDIS Everdeen, Pilikia18, I'llbeyourPatronus, CaptainBetty, RosiePaw, R, Staycalm, thesullengiraffe, Hannah, Heartinator, Violet, Auntiesuze, vector-nyu, as well as all of you who have left kudos on my work.**

**I am so thrilled by the responses from you, and I try to write back to every review I get, because it is that amazing to me that this fandom is so encouraging and so supportive.**

**Thank you.**

**Emma**


	23. Pax XXIII

**Author's Note: I am finishing this chapter after a conversation with one of my closest friends, who learned this week that her ex-husband is dying of a rapidly progressing cancer. She has not had the opportunity to say good-bye to him and may not have it, either. So death is very much on my mind, and loss and endings, and if a bit of that mood seeps into this part of the fic, that is why. (As if I didn't already have them in the Gross Anatomy classroom looking at sixty cadavers!)**

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><p>"If you tell me <em>one more thing<em> about that 'extraordinary male soprano,' I swear, Sherlock, I will give my seat away to Mycroft."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock said in return. "Besides which, he's already coming."

John's eyes widened. "Why am I _not_ surprised that someone with the name of Holmes is going to show up on one of my dates?"

"He'll be in a different box, John. Now, returning to the topic of the male soprano—"

"_Him_ again?"

"I didn't peg you as the jealous type, John."

"Who said I was jealous? I'm just tired of hearing you hypothesize about the poor man's puberty. Have some respect, for gods sake."

"You're the one who started it," Sherlock said, "and don't tell me it was an innocent question. It's the first thing people think when they hear 'male soprano': they want to know, is it true about the castrati? Was it really done? Does anyone do it now? And for most men, the very idea strikes terror into their hearts – and considerably lower down, too, I might add. No, dear Doctor, I take _no_ responsibility for the direction that this conversation has taken."

It was a bright, cold day, the last day of the year, and Holmes and Watson were sitting on a park bench in Brooklyn, drinking rich, frothy cappuccini, and arguing. _Not much has changed,_ John thought ruefully. _But then again, you knew that he wouldn't change, just because you started __**this**__. Sherlock is Sherlock. He's practically an institution. What was it he told me before we moved in to Baker Street? Oh, yes._

'_How do you feel about the violin?' And I thought, nice instrument, what's the problem? Didn't know he'd be banging on it with the wrong side of the bow more often than not, nor that he'd work on that bloody Schoenberg stuff at two in the morning. _

'_Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.' Hmm. Yeah, thought was OK, too. Thought, oh, he must be a quiet guy. Didn't imagine that when he didn't talk, he might be playing the violin instead. Upside down and backwards._

'_Potential flatmates should know the worse about each other.' And he thought that __**those**__ things were the worst. Didn't think to mention the head in the fridge, or the former cocaine habit, or the odd hours he keeps, or the fact that he intended me to be his assistant. Come to think of it, he didn't mention any of the best things about him, either. Like how absolutely brilliant he is. Or the way he looks when he's smiling, _really_ smiling, just for me. That first time, walking away from the police cars where I found him wrapped in that shock blanket. He turned to me and suggested Chinese food and I knew, right then, when he gave me one of his real smiles, that it was a rare sight, that kind of smile from him, and that it was meant for me, and that he was both grateful and astonished that I had saved his life. As if, had I not been there to save it, it might not have been worth saving. And that's when it all began, for me. Not when Mycroft thought it did, when I refused to accept his money during our first encounter. Not even at Angelo's, either – interest and fascination aren't the same as falling in love. It wasn't even until I shot the bullet and saved his life that I realized how very, very much I would miss him, this man I barely knew, if he died._

"What are you thinking, John?" Sherlock interrupted him.

"You haven't learned to read my thoughts yet? My, my, you must be getting slow on the uptake."

"John."

The doctor sighed. "I'm thinking about us, Sherlock. What else did you think would be on my mind?"

"Oh, perhaps you were thinking about the history of public parks in America. This one was another project by Frederick Law Olstead, who designed Central Park. You'll notice some similarities in their design: both have large meadows, circular drives—"

"Is that what _you_ were thinking about?"

"Obviously, John."

"And you thought _I_ might be thinking the same thing?"

"Of course I didn't think you'd be thinking of _exactly the same thing_, John. I'm not a mind reader, despite what you may believe. I just gave you that example so that you would see how ridiculous it is for you to imagine that I can read your mind, any more than you can read mine."

_Except I'm lying, John, _Sherlock thought. _And you might not take that into account. Which is fine, because I don't want you to know how little I really care about Prospect Park, and how very much I care about you, and how much I think about you. Quite distracting, you are, John Watson._

John was laughing now, almost spilling his coffee on the ground as he let his head loll backwards.

"Funny?"

"You are, Sherlock. You're funny. Don't tell me you were thinking about something as mundane as Prospect Park. It's the last day of the year, we've been lovers for a little over a week, and tonight we're going to make a showing at the fucking _opera_. Surely there's something besides landscaping that you are mulling over."

"There have been a number of prominent crimes in the New York City park system," Sherlock continued. "Including the infamous case of the Central Park jogger. The accused were imprisoned and later exonerated when DNA evidence determined that they could not possibly be connected to the case. The fascinating part of all this, you might ask? _Two of the young men who were accused actually confessed to the crime!_ A crime which they did not commit. Later, when they were released because of the DNA evidence, they said that they had memories of themselves committing the rape. So their confessions were false. Not _purposely_ false, mind you, but false because their memories lied to them. Just like our memories can lie to _us_, or to anyone." Sherlock took a sip of his drink.

"Do you know why I let you tell me all that?" John asked at last, leaning back. His body conveyed confidence, ease, as he spread his legs wide and rested his arms along the back of the bench.

"What's that?" Sherlock twitched.

John nodded. "Why I let you go on about something that's completely irrelevant? It was because I knew you'd get to the meaty part sooner or later. False memory. Are you worried about losing something, Sherlock?"

"Why would I be worried?" Sherlock asked scornfully. "I'm sitting on a bench, watching joggers and cyclists go by, and I'm here with you."

"For now." Sherlock's head gave a jerk. "For _now_, Sherlock. Is that what you're thinking?"

"Oh, I see where you're going with this, John," Sherlock snapped testily. "It's the last day of the year but that doesn't mean that I'm getting all sentimental about endings. The date is completely arbitrary. According to the Chinese lunar calendar, for example, the new year won't arrive until—"

"What's wrong with being sentimental about things coming to an end?"

Sherlock scoffed and stood, looking for a bin to toss his cup. "Come, John. Let's walk."

"I'll walk if we can talk at the same time," John protested, but stood anyway. "Otherwise this is just you trying to change the subject. As usual. What's wrong with thinking about these things on the last day of the year?"

"What things?" Sherlock frowned. _You are not dull at all,_ he thought. _Why did I ever fear you might be dull? _

There were times when John's brain worked faster than Sherlock's, filling in the gaps in the conversation and rushing ahead when Sherlock was still stuck on the colour of a person's tie and how long ago that person had cut his hair. Now was one of those times: John seemed to be two steps ahead of Sherlock in this conversation, discerning Sherlock's preoccupations before Sherlock was even aware of them.

_How long has it been like this, with him?_ Sherlock wondered. _How long has he known what I am thinking, before even I do?_ He felt suddenly bare, but not in the way that he felt when Mycroft discerned something about him that he would rather he hadn't. (Like when he sent the flowers to their room, and all of the other insinuations he had ever made about John, not to mention when Mycroft had known when he was using, and when he wasn't practicing the violin, and why.) _I felt this way with Abu,_ Sherlock thought. _This _other_, who knows what I am feeling, but doesn't want to __**do**__ anything about it. Who just notices, and sees me, and maybe wants to know more, but doesn't want to fundamentally **change** me. Not like Mycroft._

"We were talking about endings, Sherlock, and memories. Auld Lang Syne and all that. It's New Year's Eve."

"How observant you are. "

"Shut it or tell me honestly, what is wrong with me thinking about you, or you thinking about me, and telling the other?"

"Are you saying that you were thinking of me, just then?" Sherlock kicked idly at a stone in the path.

"Yes, you idiot! I was sitting there, thinking about what a beautiful day it is, what a beautiful _year_ it has been, living and working with you, and I was thinking back to when we first met, and trying to remember my first impressions. I was thinking about all these things because it is the end of the year, and we are beginning something new together, and I was wondering exactly how these changes are going to play out once we get back to Baker Street."

"Why don't you tell me, then?" Sherlock said, a cold note in his voice. "I haven't done all this -" he gestured vaguely at both of them "-before. You know that. So tell me what is troubling you."

"Nothing is troubling me. I just want to know where we stand, if you - if you had any second thoughts, that is."

Sherlock stopped, spun, and looked down at John. He narrowed his eyes and examined the other man's face carefully. He let out a loud chuckle.

"You _are_ worried, aren't you, John? Unbelievable. You're actually _worried_ about us." Sherlock clapped his hands together, about to bring them into their usual steepled position, when John surprised him by surrounding Sherlock's gloved hands in his own, holding Sherlock tightly within his grip.

"You will _not_ laugh at me, Sherlock," John said in a low, dangerous voice. "You will _not_ stand here and laugh at me. Not for this. You can call me an idiot in any other situation, and I'll sit back and laugh, but listen to me:—" his voice brokered no argument "—If you laugh at me when I'm talking about _us_, I will—I swear—" He paused, then reached up and grabbed Sherlock's head, bringing the taller man closer to him until their foreheads were touching and their eyes were just inches apart.

And then John's lips were on Sherlock's, kissing him angrily, surprising Sherlock with his vehemence. "Do you hear me, Sherlock?" John asked between kisses. "I –." Kiss. "—will—." Kiss. "—fuck—." Kiss. "—the living—." Kiss. "—daylights—." Kiss. "—out of you." Kiss. "Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock panted, trying to pull away from John and gain a few inches for himself. But then he let out a loud bellow again, an irrational, unbidden roar of laughter, and John grabbed Sherlock's face again. "I don't think you _do_ understand," John said, in that same low, tight voice. "You are trying to pull away right now."

"It's not that, John," Sherlock protested, "It's just—I want—I want—"

John covered Sherlock's mouth again with his own, preventing the detective from finishing his sentence. They kissed each other eagerly, violently almost, not caring that there might be people staring at each other, not caring that they were arguing, and snogging, and _is John actually threatening me?_ Sherlock wondered. _Is that what he means? Is that his form of a threat? He's too good to threaten to leave Baker Street again; he wouldn't say that lightly, I know he wouldn't. And so he tells me that he's going to fuck me. As if that would be any kind of deterrent to my laughing at him. Or refusing to tell him what he wants to know. Oh, John, you'll have to do better than that-or **worse**, I should say._

Sherlock managed to wriggle free of John long enough to pant, "How soon?" John loosed his grip on Sherlock's head and stared up at the taller man.

"How soon what?" he asked.

"How soon can you fuck me?"

John looked around. They were on the park's main drive, and despite a certain predilection he had for sex in the open air – a remnant, no doubt, of his days in the army, and those uncovered jeeps, _God, they were __**excellent**__ for a shag, especially at night –_ John was not about to get arrested in Brooklyn for sodomizing his boyfriend against a tree.

"How far is it back to the hotel?" he asked. Sherlock looked down at his watch. John wrinkled his brow, puzzled.

"Thirty minutes in a cab, I'd say," Sherlock said. "But first we need to walk out of the park. _Come,_" he said, taking John's hand in his own and pulling him along. "There will be cabs along Flatbush Avenue."

They reached the road in a few short minutes, but it took another five or ten before a cab passed by. The two men stood close together on the curb, waiting. John was aware, as he had so often been aware, of the height and breadth of Sherlock's body, and every move he made with it, as the detective now began to hop on and off the curb in a lilting sort of jig. John had seen Sherlock like this, before, during cases, at times exactly like this – _Well, perhaps not exactly like this,_ thought John. _Unless there was something that he knew and I didn't…_ – when a cab didn't arrive, and Sherlock was just itching to get to the scene of the crime and strut his stuff, and could hardly stand still with the anticipation of it all. It was at times like those, in the past, when John would tease Sherlock about his nervous energy, or occasionally pick a fight with him, just to distract him. But this time, John felt nearly as antsy as Sherlock, though his army training had taught him to hide it better than Sherlock managed to do. _We'll see how eager he is when we get back to our room, _John thought darkly, _and he sees that I'm not fooling around, here._

For his part, Sherlock was not just eager for the release of sex; more than that (which he had to admit was something that he was looking forward to almost more than he ever thought possible) Sherlock wanted to know how John would act, making love when he was angry.

_I've had angry sex before, _Sherlock thought. _That's what sex always felt like – before John, that is. Sex as another game, a test of wills played out between two bodies. And I usually won. But __**this**__, with John, could be something altogether different, this kind of angry sex. It would be angry, but loving, too. Passionate. Oh, wonderful! Passion: another of those double-sided words, like sent__ī__re. Etymology: Latin, of course Latin. Bloody Romans left their words all over Europe. Passiōn. Early Church usage: to depict suffering, ardour. Passion of Christ. Passionflower. So named by the Portuguese because the fruit and flower of the New World reminded them of the suffering of Christ. Later usage: physical disorder, a bodily affliction or other malady. And now: passion as intense feeling, overpowering emotion. What John does to me, in both directions: passion as love, passion as rage; passionate love, passionate rage. Or both at once. If only a cab would come. I cannot wait for this any longer. _

The cab came, of course it came, but later than John or Sherlock would have liked. And then there was traffic crossing the Brooklyn Bridge – John saw the famous structure at last, though he still had the curious impression that Sherlock was hell-bent on keeping him in Manhattan. They had barely spent a morning in Brooklyn before they were being whisked back to the hotel, back to Manhattan. John was too busy to protest, however, because he was presently occupied in the wide back seat of the cab, trying to keep Sherlock's wandering hands from reaching _inside_, yes, _actually inside_ his trousers. In a moving cab, no less, and John would have none of it. He told Sherlock firmly that they would both have to wait, that was just the way it was, and it wasn't because he was afraid of offending the delicate sensibilities of their cabbie, if the cabbie had any such misgivings; no, it was because John rebelled, in principle, at private displays of affection when there was a third party nearby. And so Sherlock contented himself with a few scant kisses, and the soft pads of John's fingers rubbing against his own, which, in themselves, were really quite enchanting, and Sherlock wondered what else he had been missing out on in these last two years when he had kept John at bay.

Sherlock paid the cabbie when they arrived at the hotel. It did not surprise John, now, that Sherlock would be the one to pay; he had paid for everything since they had arrived in New York, and as far as John was concerned, it was about time. He wasn't about to protest, especially when Sherlock had taken him by the hand and was pulling him inside, and then charging up the escalator, which was already moving, and through the lobby, and into the crowded elevator that brought them to the top floor.

When they were inside the suite again, alone and indoors at last, Sherlock scarcely had a moment to catch his breath, or look around, before John had immobilized him, pinning his chest against the wall, and was whispering into his ear.

"A bit eager, aren't we, Sherlock?" The taller man pressed his bum backwards, trying to find some purchase against John's body. But John held himself away from him, pinning him firmly with his arms alone, as Sherlock wiggled and squirmed beneath him. "Do you know what I am going to do, Sherlock?" John asked. "Do you know what I said I'd do to you, if you laughed at my questions? If you kept changing the subject?"

Sherlock shook his head and let out a sound that was suspiciously similar to a giggle.

"I think you remember, Sherlock, and that is what has you so turned on. Am I right?" John paused and blew a warm stream of air against the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock trembled and tried again, unsuccessfully, to push backwards against John.

"No, no, no," John said. "You aren't the one in charge here. You know what I said would do. And now I am going to do it. I am going to fuck you senseless, and you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do."

Sherlock's breaths were coming in ragged bursts. He leaned against the wall, letting it support the weight of his body.

"What do you want me to do, John?" Sherlock asked. He was surprised at himself; usually, he wanted things to go _his_ way, he wanted to be _el que manda_, whether at Baker Street or at New Scotland Yard. Wasn't that why he arrived late, or not at all, and why he left his belongings scattered around the flat, and why he never texted unless he needed something, and why he wouldn't ever seek out Mycroft, not even at Christmas – because _he who refuses is he who rules._

John had turned all of that around. Sherlock pushed himself closer to the wall, yearning for contact of one kind or another; if John would not give it to him, then the wall was a suitable alternative for the time being. He liked the cool feel of the plaster against his face, and he noticed how, even when his chest was flat up against it, his arse still felt exposed, distant. John was looking at his arse, Sherlock suspected. He had caught John looking at it on more than one occasion, and most of those times had been before this week.

"Lower your trousers," John said. "And put your arms up, on the wall."

"_What?_" Sherlock asked, in astonishment.

"You heard what I said." John leaned forward and blew another stream of hot air against Sherlock's neck. "Lower your trousers."

Sherlock did as he was told, reaching for his belt and then his zipper, pulling his trousers down into a puddle at his feet. He lifted his left foot, then his right, stepping out of them.

"And your pants," John commanded. "And yes, in case you were wondering, this _is_ my military voice. It's Captain John H. Watson, to you."

"I wasn't wondering," Sherlock managed to say.

"Yes, you were," John corrected him. "And you were right. This is what I sound when I'm giving orders. Are you ready for your orders?"

_Yes, Captain,_ Sherlock thought to himself. But it seemed exaggerated to use those words with John. He didn't go in for role plays, at least he had never been interested in that kind of thing, before. _But this isn't a role play_, Sherlock thought. _This is John, and he's being himself, just a different part of himself. He's being the captain that he once was, the captain that he **still** is, if I'm not mistaken—you don't lose your rank just because you're invalided—and I like it, very much. I like him, in this way, and I want to know what he's going to make me do. Because I am very, very willing to go down on my hands and knees for this man. And doesn't he know it, too! What a lot of bluster, back there in the park. He knows I can't hide from him. He knows that he's the only one I'll do this with, the only one I'll let in. And that has to be enough for him, for now. If only he'd keep doing __**this**__, in the meantime._

To John he only said, "Yes, I'm ready," before turning around to face his lover.

* * *

><p><strong>I have now posted photos of the Hudson Hotel on my tumblr account, emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com. You can get a sense of the interior of the hotel where I imagine Sherlock and John staying when they are in NYC.<strong>

**Don't feel shy, if you want to leave a review and say hello, I try to write everybody back. I love hearing your impressions of this fic, and I love talking about Sherlock, in general, and about sex and eroticism even more, so go ahead, ask me!**

**Thanks to Mirith Griffin for the shout-out in her lovely fic, "Control, Alt, Delete." As my father would say, we're members of the Society of Mutual Admiration. And I've enjoyed the convos I've had lately with Catastrophic Monsoon, tsukinoblossom, Mirith, syncsister, leew1, sycamore tree, skyfullofstars, writeaddict, Lady Ginger, Cumberbitch99, power0girl, thisisforyou, dark knightress, yuunash, Zarra Rous, and SeenaC.**


	24. Pax XXIV

"Did I say you could turn around yet, Holmes?"

Sherlock looked down at the captain, astonishment filling his wide grey eyes.

"No," he said in a soft voice, before carefully turning around to face the wall again.

"Hands on the wall, above your head, like before," Watson said curtly. He took a step closer to Holmes and put his hands on either side of the younger man's hips, curling his fingers around the prominent hipbones and holding tightly as he bent forward to breathe on the detective's neck again.

"Let me do this to you," John said, his voice somewhat looser than earlier.

"What are you going to do?" panted Sherlock.

"It's not about what I'm going to do, it's _how_ I am going to do it," John said, slowly running his fingers upwards, along Sherlock's exposed ribs. The sensation was soft and soothing, in contrast to the almost violent eagerness with which John had brought Sherlock to the wall. "Anyone could do this to you," he continued, "anyone could touch your body—and though I shouldn't feel this way, I resent anyone who has touched this body, this beautiful, beautiful body of yours. I resent them for having something that they didn't appreciate, someone they didn't know how to love. They may have fucked you, Holmes, like I am going to fuck you, but that doesn't mean a thing. Or does it?" His last words were said in a low, cold voice, the doctor slipping again into the soldier.

"They didn't mean a thing," Sherlock said with a gasp. He brought his head backwards, allowing his curls to brush the front of John's forehead. But the doctor lifted Sherlock's head and made him face the wall again.

"You're not doing what I told you to do," Watson said. "I told you to stand facing the wall, your hands above your head. I wanted you to keep looking at the wall."

"_Why_?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Curiosity killed the cat. But if you really want to know: sensory deprivation. I don't want you to see anything except that wall, until I want you to see something else. Do you understand me? Surely something as simple as sensory deprivation is comprehensible to the Great Sherlock Holmes? Additionally, you can't see what I'm doing. You can't _deduce me_ quite so easily when you can't see me."

Sherlock trembled slightly, and John did not overlook his response. _Good,_ he thought,_ it's good to make Sherlock uncertain. Show him that he can fall, and he can trust me to catch him._

"I can still deduce you, you know," Sherlock said, a bit of his old confidence returning. "I know, for example, that your mouth is approximately six inches from the back of my neck—"

"Shut it," Watson said. "You said you would let me do this to you." He released one of Sherlock's hips, bringing his left hand upwards to rest on the nape of the other man's neck. John drew figure eights around the first cervical vertebra, sending a tingle down Sherlock's back. Next, John traced the length of Sherlock's spinal column, first down the middle, then rising again on the right hand side, and descending on the left.

"You have a mild scoliosis," he observed. "Have you ever had that looked at?"

Sherlock shook his head, then let it droop forwards as he felt John's fingers brush over the small of his back, catching in the dimples at the top of both buttocks. Almost imperceptibly, hoping that the doctor would not notice, Sherlock extended his arse backwards, seeking more consistent contact with Watson's torso.

"You don't obey orders very well," John observed. "What did I say about being against the wall?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Yes, John."

"Yes, _sir_, you might say next time." Sherlock snuck a glance backwards over his shoulder. _He doesn't mean it,_ he thought._ That's so clichéd. _John caught him looking backwards and, in one swift motion, had his forearm pinned against the back of Sherlock's shoulders, pressing the taller man more tightly against the wall.

"This isn't going to work if you keep fighting me," he said into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock squirmed underneath him, then went still.

He listened. John was breathing heavily, though he had hardly exerted himself. _Arousal,_ Sherlock thought. _This arouses John. _Another, unwelcome thought crossed his mind. _It arouses me, too, to see this side of him. This must have been John before the injury, this must have been John at his height…what am I __**saying?**__ Think, Sherlock, think. Think! Did you mean, 'at the height of his powers'? Are you really so daft as to believe that John is past his prime? That's what you thought when you first met him, just for an instant, when you realized that he was poor and wanted a roommate. You thought, 'washed up,' and you would have dismissed him if it hadn't been for that intriguing psychosomatic limp._

_You are a liar, Sherlock. Liar Liar Pants on Fire. Time to be honest – if I can't be honest with myself, with whom can I be honest? The truth: you were intrigued by his military stance, and all the rest. The tan line, the shoulder injury – how many times did you stare at it when he shed his shirt last summer?_

_No, no, no! I never found him dull or washed up. That's what I wanted to believe, that is what I told myself when I realized that I needed him too much. I told myself that he was a has-been, that he meant nothing to me except as my assistant and Anderson-blocker. And now I can't imagine Baker Street without him, can't imagine solving cases without him, and – honest! Be honest! – I can't imagine **living** without him._

"Now you are very still," Watson said, interrupting his thoughts. "Which is all well and good. But I think you've gone somewhere else. And I very much need you here, with me, right in this moment. That is what _this_ is all about."

_Change of plans, _John thought.

"May I speak?" Sherlock asked in a hesitant voice. He would do everything John told him to do, he decided.

"Yes."

"I – I don't know how to say this." Sherlock was stuttering now, and he hadn't stuttered since the case of the Hound, that night when they were sitting in front of the fire and Sherlock was overcome with terror in what may have been the first time in his life, for all that John knew.

"Try, Sherlock. _Try._ You have to say it." _Definite change of plans. _Now John pulled Sherlock back a few inches from the wall and wrapped his arms around his lover's chest, holding them closely together at last. Sherlock relaxed into John's arms but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the wall. It was easier, somehow, saying the words when he could not see John's dear, dear face.

"I'm scared," Sherlock said abruptly, then fell silent. John hugged him more tightly and nestled his nose against the back of Sherlock's ear.

"Tell me," he urged.

"What if you die," Sherlock said flatly, his question falling into a statement.

"Of course I will die," John said, not exactly in a light tone, but with something other than sorrow in his voice.

"What if you leave," Sherlock said, in the same flat tone. "If you leave, John—" his chest heaved abruptly, causing John to pull him even more deeply into his embrace. And then John released him, just as abruptly and Sherlock felt barren and abandoned and, still obeying orders, he remained facing the wall. He listened to the sounds in the room, those that he could hear above the pounding of his heart – _he's gone he's gone he's gone –_ until he heard the rustle of fabric, the ring of a buckle against the floor, and he discerned what John was doing. Sherlock relaxed against the wall, accustomed now to its cool surface; revelling, even, in the predictability of the flat plane. John was behind him, and any second now John would return, warm and naked and _his_, all his, entirely Sherlock's, and –

"I will never leave you," John said, "and you know that this is a promise that I can make, with all of my heart, and at the same time, it is a promise that I cannot keep."

"John!" Sherlock cried out. "John." His chest began to heave, and for an instant, the doctor thought that he might have a panic attack in his arms, before he realised that Sherlock was crying, actually _crying_. And his sobs were terrible, dry, empty things, devoid of any soothing tears, devoid of sound: erratic tremblings and shakings and saccades that ran through first Sherlock's body, then John's, as the doctor held the younger man more tightly in his arms.

"I cannot keep the promise," John said softly, "because that kind of thing is out of my hands. And –" he took a deep breath, not knowing how to finish what he had started. _You must say this, _he thought. _You must tell Sherlock this, because for all his brilliance and all his knowledge, he does not know this very simple human truth. And that is why he searches for it so desperately, among the dead. He thinks he'll find it there, but he's wrong. Death is what gives meaning to life, but it isn't in death that we find that meaning: it's __**here**__, in these fleeting, gorgeous moments, in the suppositionless now, where we forge our lives. And life is always, always lived in the shadow of death._

"This is the price we pay," John began again. "This is the price we pay, for living and for loving and for finding each other."

"I don't _want_ this then," Sherlock said, and his voice was wretched, so sad that John could barely stand to hear it. "I don't _want_ this. It hurts, John. Knowing I am going to lose you." He sniffed against the wall, his body still shaking with the sobs.

"Yes, Sherlock. It hurts." John reached back and upwards, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders, turning the detective around until their chests brushed against each other and their thighs touched. Sherlock, surprisingly, was still erect, and upon feeling the other man's long erection against his stomach, John noticed the stirring in his own groin.

"It hurts, Sherlock," the doctor repeated, reaching down to stroke gently around Sherlock's shaft. The detective arched his back against the wall, extending his groin forward and into John's hands. He shut his eyes, allowing his head to loll to one side, and he braced himself with his arms against the wall. "It hurts, and yet you're still aroused. You still want this, you still want _me_."

"Yes," he blurted, "and that's what is so _painful. _How can I want you so badly? How do people _live_ with this kind of pain?"

John laughed, his face moving into a smile, reassuring Sherlock with the everydayness of his expression.

"You know what happens to the worst of us," John reminded him. "Murder and mayhem and all the rest." He took a deep breath, then looked down reverently at Sherlock's penis. "But others—the majority of us—take what we can get. We love now, because we _don't_ know what will happen tomorrow. All we know is that it will be over, someday. And we want to love before it is all gone." He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's foreskin, noticing how the skin on his hands caught on the skin of Sherlock's penis. John lifted his other hand to his mouth, making sure that Sherlock was following him with his eyes, and left a mouthful of saliva on his palm. Then he reached down and grabbed Sherlock's cock again. His hand glided more easily over the smooth skin, and the tremble that ran through Sherlock's body this time was not from fear. John tugged at his lover's erection, gently, gently, eliciting a small moan from above, before taking Sherlock by both hands and, walking backwards, leading the other man to the bedroom.

They did not stop looking at each other as they walked across the room. Sherlock steered John around the sofa and through the doorway. When John felt his knees against the edge of the bed, he stopped to change places with Sherlock, and laid him over the white eiderdown.

John pulled his eyes from Sherlock's long enough to look around the bedroom and catch a glance at the white roses on the table.

"There's another bouquet!" he exclaimed, pointing. Sherlock awkwardly turned his head, and then grumbled his brother's name. John let out a chuckle before he lowered himself over Sherlock, gazing into his lover's eyes.

When they kissed at last, Sherlock noticed the heat of their mouths coming together, and the moisture and the slick pressure that each of them exerted on the other. He noticed the hair along John's arms, where John was rubbing against him, and he noticed how he had parted his legs, opening himself up to John, willing John to take heed. He wanted John like _this_, over him, facing him, their chests tight against each other. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's hips, pulling the doctor tight against him. John let out a moan when his penis rubbed against Sherlock's, and Sherlock moaned in return.

"I will do this every day you want to," John said. "Hell, I would do this _twice _a day."

"Be careful what you promise," Sherlock said. "I have been known to bite off more than I can chew."

"Meaning?"

"Probably more than you can chew, as well."

"I still don't understand this innuendo, Sherlock, but you are _fit_!" John rose slightly so that he could survey the length of Sherlock's body with his eyes. "You are like those medieval paintings of Christ – all long limbs and flat planes. And, no, I probably am not supposed to find that kind of image hot, but you definitely _are _hot_._"

"I don't know about that," Sherlock said.

"Shut up, you bastard. You know you're fantastic to look at." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No, I meant that I don't know that those paintings _weren't_ intended to be erotic. Passion of Christ and all that, you know. Bernini's Saint Theresa, caught up in divine ecstasy."

"Bugger all!" John said. "I'm not Catholic, but if I were…"

"Is what we're doing holy?" Sherlock interrupted.

John's jaw tightened. "Is what we're doing—_Geez, _Sherlock, the questions you ask!"

"I want to know."

"Depends on what you mean."

"Holy. Sacred. Blessèd. Which of these words _don't_ you understand?"

"Yes to all of them, Sherlock. Yes to whatever goodness is out there. Yes to it all."

"Is that your final answer?"

"YES!" John ran his hands over Sherlock's chest, and then leaned down to take a nipple in his mouth. It never failed, that combination of tongue and teeth on his chest: Sherlock began to buck against John, wrapping his legs around him once more, urging the doctor to continue that delicious attention. _He knows I like it, _Sherlock thought.

"Yes, just like that. Like that, John, what you just did with your tongue there." _Exactly. Right. Good. Ah. No! What? Not there. Not yet. But you __**are**__ going there, you impossible man. I want your mouth down there, too, down on my cock. I want you to draw me in, up to the base if you can take it that deep, and I want you to suck me until I spend myself in your arms. John John John._

But John, before his mouth got any further than the top of Sherlock's pelvis, sat up suddenly, turning around and scooting backwards so that he sat next to Sherlock's head. _He wouldn't_, Sherlock thought. _But he __**is**_**. **_He's actually doing that._

Sherlock almost lost his breath when John raised his hips as he swung around to rest on his forearms over Sherlock's stomach, taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth as his own hovered just inches from Sherlock's face. Sherlock reached up to take John's penis in his hands, then brought him down closer, easing him slowly into his mouth. But the angle was wrong, because Sherlock's body was too long and John's was too short; their cocks and mouths eagerly sought each other but the strain was too much, the gap too frustrating. Sherlock blindly fumbled behind him, searching for a pillow, and when he found one he tucked it under his neck, at last raising his head so that he could bridge the space between them.

Sherlock still feared it might not work. He had had trouble when he had tried this position once before: the attention he needed to devote to the other man's cock was usually diverted by the intensity of the sensations on his own, or, conversely, he would get carried away in the attentions he paid to the other man, neglecting his own pleasure.

But as Sherlock sucked on John and John sucked on Sherlock, their bodies curled together in an ouroboros of pleasure, what began as two lone gestures turned, in the course of a few minutes, into synchronized movement. Sherlock, in John's mouth, was John in Sherlock's mouth; Sherlock felt, even if he did not understand, that this was one of the extraordinary instances of his life, to be filed up there among the day in childhood when he first understood calculus, or the time he first put the bow to the violin strings, and there alongside the first crime he solved, and the moment he met John at St. Bart's.

What was it that people called these moments? Could they be fixed, like a butterfly under glass, or along the lines of one of those precise, glowing still life paintings of the Dutch school? Or would he lose this moment as soon as it passed, when the neurons in his hippocampi imprinted the memory on the entorhinal cortex, transmitting it out into the cortical structures, allowing the memory to mix with all of the other commonplaces reminiscences he stored with him? Kandel's lab had determined that, every time a memory was recalled, the old memory was rewritten. The brain was a palimpsest, after all; this moment was only ever _past_, irrecoverable, lost. What then? Whither John? Whither Sherlock? Whither this time and place?

The climax existed in that space apart from memory. It pushed memory aside, laughed at it and at its old battle with oblivion. Orgasm, whether it came slowly or quickly, was a meaning unto itself. Sherlock could not argue with orgasm, could not argue against its pleasure, or even against its brevity. 'Surrender' was not a word that Sherlock would use to describe his actions, and yet there was no other word that came to his mind, as the orgasm threatened to overtake him; John's tongue was reaching out and around his cock, for the hundredth time taking him in and sucking and pulling and sucking again and _does this feel the same for him as it does for me? What can I ever know of what it is like for him? I imagine it's the same and that's good enough for now, when the deep pleasure is building within me, when I feel it in the hum that John is making at the back of his throat, how it tickles me against my cock. That long stroke he just gave me – oh, teasing, tantalizing, trailing down to the base and over and under my balls and up again, till he has taken me completely in his mouth again, and I have taken him in mine, and we nibble and suck and suckle at each other, until – now now now, more, just a little more, John._

He wanted to shout these last words, but his mouth was full of John, and only John, and in just a few more seconds they would both spend themselves in saliva and semen, and would pull away from each other and be separate beings again, but for just this moment, Sherlock was John, and John was Sherlock, and Sherlock realized that it had been like that before, the hall of mirrors repeating upon itself and all that, and it could be like that, again. As soon as tomorrow, perhaps, or later that night.

* * *

><p>"Opera!" John sang in a warbly voice from the bathroom, later that same day. "We're going to the o-per-a!" His voice bounced up and down, in an imitation of a recitative. "We're going to see men si-i-i-i-ng…Ho! Ho! Ho!"<p>

Sherlock was lounging on the bed, his hair still damp from his shower, dripping onto his blue dressing robe. He fumbled idly through a copy of _The New York Times_, waiting for John to emerge from the shower.

"And women, too," the detective called out. And then, in a broad Queens accent, he said, "Don't forget the _lay-dees._"

John poked his head out of the bathroom door, a toothbrush in his hand.

"I thought we were going to see the male soprano."

Sherlock looked up from the bed. His long toes were twitching, John noticed. _Beating out a rhythm, perhaps? Or maybe the lazy aftershocks of a good fuck…_

"He has a minor role, a _very_ minor role."

"A minor role for a minor man?"

"I have no idea if he is miniscule, or underage, or unimportant," Sherlock said drolly, "because I really couldn't care less about him." He looked up to see John brushing his teeth, and winked at the handsome doctor. "There are more important things on my mind these days." He glanced down idly at the Arts section. "John. If you don't finish grooming yourself, we'll be late. You still need to shave, you know."

"Ha!" John said, spitting out a spray of toothpaste as he spoke. "You're one to talk. Lazing around like you haven't anything better to do. Don't you have a tie to pick out for me?"

"You'll wear the gold. It goes well with the grey of your suit. I'm wearing a light purple one, myself."

"Purple and navy?" John frowned as best he could with a toothbrush in his mouth.

"Is that so odd? Purple running to pink." Sherlock's eyes met John's for a moment, before returning to the paper.

"Not odd at all," John assented. "Not odd at all."

* * *

><p><p>

Notes:

Your comments on my last chapter were just amazing. Thank you all for reading, and thank you especially to those who commented. You inspired me to sit down for another night of writing and give you the continuation of what I posted last night.

About the male soprano: this particular singer is someone who went to my college, and who lived in my courtyard during my first year. I remember how he used to sing scales at night, and how his voice would echo across the entire courtyard. For months I thought that he was a woman, until a suitemate told me otherwise. Now, eleven years later, he is singing at the Metropolitan Opera, alongside Plácido. Small world, indeed.

~Emma


	25. Pax XXV

**A/N: Thanks to the great vector-nyu, who gave me insider information about the **_**Enchanted Island**_** gala. The event was black-tie but given that John has a new, bespoke grey suit, I decided to forgo that particular stylistic requirement. And the Ravenna Music Festival began in 1990, which is a few years too late for my timeline (Sherlock would have been about 14 then, if he is the same age as BC). But we'll let that slide, now won't we? I was lucky enough to attend Ravenna in 2008 and it is amazing.**

**There are some photos of Lincoln Center posted on my tumblr site, to give you a sense of the scale of the place, as well as a photo of Korean peppers that I took at K-Town on Friday. Also, when I was writing this chapter and the next, with their references to Shakespeare, I was reminded of one of my favourite Sherlock fanfics, the "Eye of the Beholder" series written by daysofstorm, which is similarly Shakespearean in parts. I highly recommend her work if you have not read it before now.**

**Also, I was reminded of SeenaC's lovely "Night at the Symphony" as I was writing this. She has Sherlock say some marvellous things about the importance of dressing up to go to classical music events, and I couldn't agree with her more.**

**Ta.**

**Emma**

* * *

><p>Pax XXV<p>

"Hurry up, John, we'll be late," Sherlock said in a tense voice.

"What time does it start again?"

"Six-thirty. But it's not about getting there on _time_. God, John, if we get there at 6:30 we'll be _late_. It's not like there are trailers to watch before the show."

"Then why do we have to be thirty minutes early?"

John rushed after Sherlock as the taller man took long strides up Columbus Avenue. Their hotel was a half dozen blocks from the Lincoln Center complex that hosted the Metropolitan Opera, and it was not even six o'clock, and yet Sherlock walked as if possessed.

"I _hate_ to be late to a performance," he called back at John. "Only idiots are late for a performance. And if we're late, we have to wait until the first act is over to enter. _Come_, John, _hurry_!"

"Coming…" John muttered. He didn't mind, actually, chasing after Sherlock – God knows he had had enough experience doing the same across London – especially when they were going on a date, an actual date, to the opera, no less.

The two men crossed the wide avenue and approached the large plaza of Lincoln Center, flanked to the south by the American Ballet Company, to the north by Avery Fisher Hall, home to the New York Philharmonic. Directly in front of them, across the plaza to the west, was the Metropolitan Opera House. The entire front of the building was formed of tall windows under high arches, through which John could glimpse, on either side of the entrance, two enormous paintings. Sherlock paused by the fountain in the middle of the plaza, pointing to the building in front of them.

"Classic 1960s architecture," he began. "See those right angles, the tall ceilings, the arches that are redolent of classical Greece? Think Minoru Yamasaki."

"Who?"

"Yamasaki designed the World Trade Centers. But I'm thinking more of the building he created at Princeton, for their school of international affairs. It has the same kind of columns as these," he explained, gesturing. "But the Opera House was designed by someone else, Wallace Harrison, a contemporary of Yamasaki. I'm just using Yamasaki as a point of comparison. So many American public buildings in the sixties incorporated these kinds of stylized columns, and then there's the large travertine panels on the side of the building, which have always reminded me of the marble veneer at the van der Roes pavilion from the Barcelona World Fair…an earlier version of modernist architecture, to be sure, but the stylistic relationship is evident."

"You've lost me now," John admitted. "But perhaps you can tell me, what are those paintings?" John pointed upwards as they walked towards the entrance of the Opera House.

"Chagalls, I think," Sherlock said. "And they're murals, not paintings. But I'd have to see them more closely, to make sure. We'll find out once we're inside." He reached his long fingers into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a white envelope. Handing it to John, he said, "Our tickets. Central box, parterre level." John opened the envelope and pulled out the tickets. He laughed when he saw the price on them.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked, pulling close to Sherlock. "These tickets cost as much as a weekend in Paris!"

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or, maybe I should ask, would the weekend in Paris be a better selection, next time?"

He grabbed John by the elbow, steering him through the doors and into the lobby. "You are incorrigible," John whispered, as they joined the queue of patrons. John looked up; there were several levels of balconies that opened onto a central well, crowned at top by a stunning, starburst chandelier. The entire place was lined with plush red carpeting and walls painted to match.

"Come, John," Sherlock said imperiously, taking John by the elbow again. _Perhaps tonight's the night when he will make sure everyone knows that I'm his date,_ thought John,_ though there's scarcely any reason to do that here, in New York, where we don't know a soul besides Mycroft. Mycroft! He is supposed to be here, too. I wonder where he'll be sitting, and what he'll say about us. Has Sherlock told him? I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't said a word. Maybe that's why he won't let go of me—he wants Mycroft to see us like this, together. In case he didn't see us dancing at the U.N. Ball, that is._

"Sherlock?" John asked as they climbed the stairs leading to the parterre.

"Yes, love?" It didn't sound ridiculous or overdone with Sherlock used that word. Instead, it sounded quite scandalous, the way he drew it out into two syllables, as if _love_ was on the verge of becoming _lover._

John blushed despite himself. "You said that Mycroft would be here. Doesn't he have more important business, like preventing a terrorist attack tonight?"

"Not on," Sherlock said absent-mindedly. "Tickets, John." They had arrived at the door leading to their box, and a red-suited usher was waiting for John to present their tickets. She smiled at them, handing them a program each, and led them into the box.

A familiar figure rose from one of the chairs as they entered.

"Good evening, brother of mine," Mycroft purred.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked coldly, pulling back slightly from John. _He didn't know Mycroft would be here,_ thought John. He forced his face into a smile and extended his hand to shake Mycroft's.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," John said amiably, smiling at the older Holmes. Sherlock stood stiffly to the side, watching his brother and his lover exchanged the usual pleasantries.

"Good evening, Dr Watson. So good of you to join us for the performance."

"I was under the impression that you were joining _us_," John said frankly. "Sherlock?" He turned and looked at the detective, who was positively glowering.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, Sherlock, don't be unpleasant. It really doesn't suit your face to frown so much. Mummy would disapprove."

"Yes, she might, but she's not here, _is she?_" Sherlock hissed.

"Am I right to assume," Mycroft began, turning to John, "that things have reached a, shall we say, satisfactory _conclusion_ between the two of you?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say just now?" John asked in as innocent voice as he could muster.

"Never mind," Mycroft said with a half-smile. "Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock grumbled. The two brothers exchanged looks.

"Did you receive the flowers that I sent you?"

"Oh, the white roses were from _you_?" John asked.

"Did you think it was amusing, sending white roses?" Sherlock asked.

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, interrupting him. "What does it matter what colour they were?"

"In the language of the flowers," Mycroft began in a haughty tone, "a white rose may signify many things. Innocence, new beginnings, a memorial for the dead, spiritual love, the undying loyalty of a love that lasts until death. I thought it fitting for the occasion."

"What occasion?" John asked, since Sherlock had his arms crossed in front of him and looked in no mood to continue the conversation.

Mycroft smiled at John smugly, as if to say, _Silly little man._

"The anniversary of our mother's death, of course," Mycroft announced. John looked up at his lover, his eyes wide with revelation. He yearned to reach out and take Sherlock's hand, but they hadn't discussed what they would tell Mycroft, or when, and so he restrained himself. An opaque expression crossed Sherlock's face as John watched him.

_I'm sorry, John,_ Sherlock thought_, _willing John to read his thoughts. _I should have let you know, shouldn't I?_

"Why are you in our box?" Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft looked at his watch. "Dear brother, it's nearly twenty minutes till curtain fall. I'm two boxes over. Finding my seat will not be an issue. And first I wanted to find you both and wish-" he began, looking at John, "The last thing I want to be is presumptuous, dear Doctor, but am I right to assume that we have some happy news to celebrate on this otherwise sorrowful day?"

_Piss off, _thought John, feeling the heat crawl up his neck as anger, white and hot, filled him. _You have done more to fuck Sherlock up, to make him feel __**less than capable**__, unwanted, unloved—and I don't know the details, Mycroft, but I do know that some boundaries need to be drawn. Now._

"Are you referring to the relationship between Sherlock and me?" John asked in as light a tone as he could muster. "Because there's no need to beat around the bush. Just ask us what you wish to know. And then I'm going to have to ask you to leave our box. It appears that there are some other patrons trying to access their seats." He pointed to a couple that had entered the small box. They saw the dark expression on John's face and quickly excused themselves, the woman saying that she needed a drink of water before the performance.

"John—" Mycroft began.

"I have told you before that I want you to call me 'Doctor Watson'," John interrupted him. "And I would ask you not to be presumptuous here."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Of course," he said in a syrupy voice, "I'm so sorry to have offended you, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you. And while you're apologizing, you could do well to apologize to your brother."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked over to his brother, who had an almost identical expression on his face.

"And may I ask, for what should I apologize?" Mycroft's eyes went wide, as if protesting his innocence; joining them, his mouth slid open into an over-large smile.

"For being such a sodding git all the time," John said. "For showing up here without telling us beforehand. For all of your little insinuations about us. For sending the bouquet of red roses just to rile Sherlock, and while you're at it, for that bunch of white roses that you planted in our room today. I would bet that you did that just to remind Sherlock of your mother's death. To what purpose, I don't really know. Look, you may think it's none of my business, but it has _become _my business ever since I moved into Baker Street. And I have some advice to you, something they may not have taught you at spook school: if you stop trying to interfere in Sherlock's life, maybe, just _maybe,_ if you are very lucky, and very patient, just _maybe_ he would be the one to seek _you_ out, from time to time. It doesn't do to badger and harass a person if you want that person to like you."

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, but then shut it when John lifted a finger, gesturing for him to remain silent.

"And while I have your attention, may I just say, regarding Sherlock and me—"

"Stop, John," Sherlock said in a low voice, coming close to grab John's outstretched hand, pulling it to his side. "I want to say it."

Mycroft looked bemused, as if he had been waiting for this.

"You might want to wipe that smirk off your face," John suggested.

Mycroft did his best to rearrange his mouth into a neutral position, but his eyes still glimmered with something like pique.

"I'm all ears," the older Holmes said in as gracious a voice as he could muster.

"John—," began Sherlock in a voice that was rather too high for him. He started over, resuming his normal baritone. "John and I—that is—John…" Sherlock trailed off, looking down at where his fingers were interlocked with the doctor's. He pulled their joined hands up to his chest, clenching John's palm against his sternum. Then he began again, in a rapid, breathless voice: "Mycroft Holmes, I am very pleased to present you to Doctor John Watson, formerly Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently residing at 221B Baker Street, London, specialist in acute trauma and emergency medicine, expert in matters of anatomy, sharpshooting, and my heart." Sherlock pounded their hands on the centre of his ribcage, as if to emphasize his point. "This man has recently agreed to accept me as his lover and, as such, I expect you to afford him the courtesy due to someone of my close acquaintance. Now, Mycroft, please shake hands with John. John, this is Mycroft. None of this 'Mr Holmes' or "Dr Watson' business any longer." He released John's hand so that John could reach out and shake Mycroft's limp palm.

"A _pleasure_," Mycroft simpered. "Welcome to the family, John."

John nodded brusquely, removing his hand. "Thank you."

Mycroft looked down at his wrist. "My, look at the time! They will be lowering the lights soon. Be sure to watch the chandeliers, John. They are so enchanting when they rise into the ceiling. Good-bye, John, Sherlock. I bid you adieu." He tipped his head in a slight, old-fashioned bow, and made his way out of their box. In less than a minute John saw him emerge several boxes over. But he had other things on his mind, for Sherlock had found their seats, and had pushed John in one with a rough shove, and was now leaning over John, grasping John's face in his broad hands as he inclined his head to lay his half-opened mouth over John's. He kissed John slowly, tenderly, longingly, until the door to the box opened and the couple that they had seen earlier walked through.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, drawing away from John, who looked at him with a stunned expression. He continued to stare at Sherlock, their eyes locked, until he noticed that the lights in the theatre were dimming, and he turned at last to face forward in his seat. Sherlock's right hand fell to grasp John's left. With his free hand, John pointed upwards to the ceiling.

"The lights!" he said gleefully. The chandeliers, riotous bursts of crystal, were indeed retreating into the top of the opera house, as Mycroft had promised. Sherlock nestled his face against John's shoulder, whispering again, "I love you." John nodded down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head.

"Thank you," he said. "For saying what you did to Mycroft. Maybe now he'll bugger off."

Sherlock laughed under his breath. "I doubt he'll do that. But at least he can stop with the insinuations."

"I don't think he'll ever stop being himself," John said, "a first-rate prig. Next thing you know, he'll be asking us when we're planning to tie the knot."

"Or have children," Sherlock said, a smile forming on his lips.

"Children, home, retirement, whatever. You know he'll never stop poking his fingers into your business. You might as well just get used to telling him what we're up to before he even has time to wonder."

"Shhh," Sherlock murmured. "They're tuning the orchestra now." He squeezed John's hand in reassurance. They would talk about Mycroft, and Mummy, and all those other important 'M' words, like money and music and marriage, murder and mayhem and marmalade, another time. Now the curtains were drawing apart, and the overture was beginning, and it was time to be transported to a brave new world.

* * *

><p>Earlier that afternoon, John had spent some time reading the opera's program online, and once the performance began, he was grateful he had done some research ahead of time. What with the encounter with Mycroft before the first act, and the ferocity of Sherlock's kisses, he hadn't had a moment to glance at the playbill in his lap.<p>

John was accustomed to the labyrinthine plots of most operas, and this one was no exception: it blended two different Shakespeare plays, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and _The Tempest_, imagining what would have happened if the lovers from _Dream_ were shipwrecked on Prospero's island. The whole idea sounded rather farfetched, but as Sherlock had explained to them as they were dressing, it was not uncommon in Baroque opera to combine different plots and different pieces by different composers, to create what was called a _pasticcio_, or pastiche. Privately, John had thought it all sounded like a fancy Italian dessert, but he kept that thought to himself.

"What they have done," Sherlock lectured as he pulled on his dress socks, "is take 300-year-old music and create an entirely new artistic creation. Isn't that wonderful? To think, they are resurrecting some pieces that have almost been forgotten – the Rameau dances from _Les fêtes d'Hébé_, for example. They're difficult to find on recording, much less in a live performance. This will be _marvellous_, John. What perfect timing we had, coming to New York when we did."

"Indeed," John had responded, not daring to ask who Rameau was. But Sherlock continued.

"And then there's the fact that the singing will be in English. It gives it a whole different meaning, knowing that most of the audience will be able to understand what's going on without consulting those dratted subtitles every second. Makes opera more contemporary too, reminds us that opera was meant to be _understood_, in its day, and not just subtitled like it is now. Do you remember, John, when we had to go to the opera with a libretto in hand in order to follow what was going on?"

"No, can't say I went to opera when I was young; too busy playing squash. But, tell me, what was it like having to use the libretto?" Sherlock was clearly eager to pontificate on libretti and subtitles and other operatic minutiae, and who was John to stop him?

"Before I knew German and Italian, it was absolutely essential to have a libretto when we went to the opera."

"Oh, so before you were five years old, you mean?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, absolutely serious. There were still moments when he failed to catch John's sarcasm. "I learned Italian when I was nine and German when I was twelve. Italian came more easily, of course, because of the Spanish."

"Of course," John said, playing along. He loved having a genius for a boyfriend, despite the occasional (or frequent) arrogance that came with the package. "And did you learn them from books, or from school?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Neither. We spent one summer in Italy with Mummy and Abu, so that Mummy could play in the Ravenna music festival."

"Your mother played? Professionally? What instrument?" John looked up from the table where he was sitting with Sherlock's laptop.

"She was a pianist. Not a professional, _per se,_ but she did play when people invited her."

"So you're saying that your mother could have been a professional, but wasn't?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Yes," he said softly.

"Any particular reason she gave up a concert career?"

"I wouldn't say that she 'gave it up,' exactly," Sherlock corrected him. "She just had other priorities. She would play at concerts as a favour, or when another performer couldn't make it. That year, we spent most of the summer in Umbria."

"I thought you summered in Spain," John commented. It made him smile to think that he was living – and sleeping with – someone who had "summered" in places as a child.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not that year. Mummy wanted us to get some exposure to Italy. We were both studying Latin in school, and Mycroft had an interest in Hannibal. So we went to Umbria." John laughed.

"Hannibal? That figures."

"He marched his armies through Umbria before taking Rome. The province is littered with old battle sites. Mycroft had a field day with it. Published an article about it, and all. _Ancient Carthaginian Battle Strategies in the Second Punic Wars_, something like that."

"And you, Sherlock? How did _you_ spend the summer?"

"I told you. I learned Italian. And played the violin."

"In a summer? You learned Italian in just a summer?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was seat on the sofa. He shook his head, as if to say, _You know better, John._

"Yes," he said, in a voice that was almost bashful.

John whistled. "I'm impressed, Sherlock. But then, I'm impressed by almost everything about you."

"Don't say that," Sherlock said. "You shouldn't say that kind of thing so often."

"Why not? Tell you that you are amazing and brilliant and absolutely gorgeous? Why not? It's all true. It's not like I'm going to wear out the words by using them."

"It's not that, it's just—" Sherlock paused. "I'm not used to someone saying that to me."

"As if I haven't been saying these kinds of things to you for the last two years. Honestly, Sherlock, you had better get used to it. Because I'm never going to stop telling you how extraordinary you are."

Two red marks appeared high on Sherlock's cheeks, and John would have teased his lover for blushing if he hadn't known that it would upset Sherlock even further.

"I'm a genius, John. By definition, that is extraordinary. But that's like saying that a zebra has stripes. It doesn't _mean_ anything to be extraordinary when one is a genius."

John rose from the table and came to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

"You're extraordinary because you're _you_. And if that includes being a genius, I certainly don't why that wouldn't count for something. There are plenty of people who are geniuses and don't _do_ anything with their genius. Oh, they might do little things, but _you_, Sherlock, you save lives with your talent."

Sherlock had scoffed, getting up from the sofa and striding across the room to reclaim his laptop.

"Do you want to learn more about the opera?" he asked John once he had sat down again.

"If that's a suggestion to change the subject," John grumbled, "I might as well prepare myself before the performance tonight."

* * *

><p>Now that they were in the grand theatre of the Met, in the centre box of the first balcony, Sherlock congratulated himself for having procured the tickets months ahead of time. <em>You didn't know if John would come,<em> he reminded himself. _ He might not have. It was a gamble. A gamble that you __**won**_**, **_Sherlock. Brilliant. No, not quite. Not brilliant at all. Brilliant would have been reciprocating John's offer of something more than friendship, that night in the Welsh lodge. But I'll settle for this opera, tonight, on this other enchanted island, a world away from Baker Street._

On stage, Ariel was warbling about her bondage to Prospero, throwing fairy dust here and there and working all sorts of theatrical magic with backlit digital screens and lighting tricks and _bel canto_ at its best. It was all luscious splendor, this kind of opera, and Sherlock wished that he could get lost in the music as he usually was able to do at concerts. The singers were certainly first-class, though he rarely had to worry about that at the Metropolitan Opera. And the music was delightful, aria after blessed aria from the best operatic composers of the 17th and 18th centuries. But Sherlock was distracted by the pressure of John's knee against his own, and still agitated by the unexpected encounter with Mycroft in their box. And then there was the business of the date itself, the blasted final day of the year, and what that always meant to him (and to Mycroft, if he were honest), and why he didn't want to think about it any longer. He wished that it were January already, that the clock would strike midnight and whisk them away into a bright new year.

When the curtain fell on the first act, and John clapped his hands heartily in the direction of the stage, Sherlock regained some of his composure. And when John turned towards him, a wide smile on his face, Sherlock felt warmth travel through his body. _John, _he thought,_ John, you are enjoying this, enjoying this performance and the holiday and all the rest. I still don't understand why, but you are enjoying __**me**__, and that is why I'll go out and buy three flutes of champagne at the concession and toast to my mother's memory and to the new year and to new love. I'll toast to all of it, because you are at my side._

To John, he merely twitched his mouth and said, "Good?"

"Excellent," John shouted over the applause. "It's just one amazing aria after another. It's almost too good to be real. And did you see the costumes? Ariel was wearing an old diving suit! She – or should I say he? – looked like something out of Jules Verne."

"Wait till you see the mermaids."

"Mermaids? Do you know something I don't know?"

"Just from the photographs on their website. We are going to see some creatures of the deep in the second act, once Poseidon makes his appearance."

"Ah." John stood, straightening his suit jacket. He reached out to take Sherlock's elbow, guiding the taller man towards the door. "Where shall we go?"

Sherlock did not respond, but he directed them to the queue forming at the concessionary. "Mycroft will be here sooner or later," he whispered conspiratorially. "If you want to find him, just head towards the food."

"I thought you didn't want to see your brother," John whispered back.

"If you can't beat him, join him. Isn't that something you would say?"

"Probably. Speaking of which…" John nudged Sherlock because Mycroft was headed their way.

"That was _lovely_, wasn't it, gentlemen?" John was now flanked by both Holmes brothers and, not unusual for him, felt decidedly short and squat in their presence.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed. The queue moved quickly; the bartender was asking for their order, and before John knew what was going on, Sherlock handed him and Mycroft each a flute of champagne, keeping a third for himself. Then Sherlock led them to the edge of the balcony that overlooked the entryway and lobby.

"How did you like it, John?" Mycroft asked in what John assumed was his 'chummy' voice.

"I loved it," John said frankly. "It was a bit much, but—" he paused.

"But, after all, when is Baroque anything _other_ than excessive?" Mycroft posed.

"Exactly," John agreed. "It was extravagant and altogether too fancy and was just like eating five bowls of trifle, and I loved it."

"So pleased to hear that," Mycroft murmured. He held up his glass to Sherlock, who joined them now. "A toast, little brother? From you?"

"A toast," confirmed Sherlock.

"To what or to whom, may I ask?"

Sherlock raised his glass and the other men raised theirs in turn.

"In memory of Violeta Mejía Santos de Portnoy Holmes!" he said in a full voice. "Mother, sister, daughter, friend – in her memory."

"To Violeta Holmes," John echoed, as Mycroft cried, "To Mummy!"

Sherlock smiled down at John, then looked towards Mycroft. "To family," he continued. "And friends, and the end of the old year, and the beginning of the new. To music, and murders—"

"What?" gasped John.

"To music, and murders that will be solved, and wounds that will be healed," he pointed his champagne flute at John, "and to peace that will be wrought," another tilt, to Mycroft this time, "and to familiar faces in foreign places."

"Here, here," John said, bringing the flute to his lips.

"So touching," Mycroft purred. "I didn't know you had it in you, brother-o-mine."

Sherlock clinked his glass against Mycroft's. "Once a year, My. Once a year. I promised."

"Yes, you did. I thought you had forgot." Sherlock shook his head, finishing his champagne in three rapid sips.

They heard a loud chime ringing, and saw the other patrons moving towards the boxes again. Sherlock put his hand at the base of John's spine, guiding him towards their seats.

"Watch for the mermaids, John," he said huskily. "And for Sycorax's duet with Caliban."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about Sherlock, but I fully intend to enjoy every last minute of this."

"As well you should," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Because I want you in a good mood for the dinner and dancing that follows."

John threw his head back over his shoulder, giving Sherlock a sly grin.

"Are you saying I'm usually in a snit?"

"Not at all. Merely that—never mind. Here, you sit down first."

The lights were dimming, signalling for the audience to settle themselves and gather in the silence. Then the heavy red curtains rose on stage, and the enchanted island came to life again.


	26. Pax XXVI

Pax XXVI

Note: This is a belated birthday present for vector-nyu, who was so kind as to provide me with information about the New Year's Eve gala at the Metropolitan Opera. Thank you, vector-nyu!

This chapter has taken me longer than I had anticipated to write, what with a case of writer's block and my own sadness at knowing that the story is ending soon. Thank you for sticking with me through all of this. Your comments, kudos, reviews, and follows are so heartening to me. Thank you, thank you.

I have posted some more photos of the opera on my tumblr page, as well as a link to the aria that Sycorax sings to Caliban, so that you can get a sense for the music in this opera. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Hearts that love can all be broken," sings Sycorax to her beloved, monstrous son, the Caribbean cannibal, Caliban. He has run to her, like a child wanting to be consoled, after the beautiful Helena wakes from her enchantment and remembers that she is in love with a man, after all, and not with a beast like Caliban. Demetrius has spirited Helena away, leaving Caliban to mourn over her loss in his mother's arms. "Hearts that love can all be broken," repeats the grand soprano, DiDonato, trilling Handel's floral melody to new words.<p>

Sherlock sees John's profile at the corner of his vision; the doctor is leaning forward in his seat, his eyes transfixed on the scene in front of them. Sherlock wants to reach for him, to wrap his cool fingers around John's warm hand, but he restrains himself. The music is too beautiful, too sorrowful, and Sherlock finds himself unable to breach the distance between him and John, lest he break the spell of loss and longing crafted for them by the singers.

_Hearts that love can all be broken. _He repeats the words silently to himself, over and over, until he loses track of the duet, caught in the automatic repetition of those words.

_What does she mean?_ Sherlock asks himself. The ambiguity of the verses disturbs him. _Why can't she just say what she __**means**__? Is she telling her son that it is still good that he loved someone, even if he lost that love? 'Better to have loved and lost,' and all that rigmarole? Or is she warning him __**against**__ love? Must be the latter: her love for fickle Prospero was what landed Sycorax in exile, on the dark side of the island. So she would be warning him against love, then; warning him that love could only bring him sorrow._

Unwillingly, a memory pricks at the back of Sherlock's mind. The soprano's words remind him of something that Mycroft said to him, months ago, when they stood in the passageway together outside of St. Bart's morgue. _All lives must end, _he had said._ All hearts are broken._

Sherlock had been puzzled then, as he is puzzled now. _What did Mycroft mean?_ he had wondered. _I asked him if he ever wondered if there was something wrong with us. And he did not answer, not really. More ambiguity, not that I'm surprised by that, not with Mycroft. He excels at not saying what he means. So what did he really mean, by telling me that all lives must end, all hearts must be broken? __**Why**__ must my heart ever be broken? Why must I ever give this up, give __**him**__ up? I won't! I won't give him up, ever! _

And then Sherlock thinks,_ Are we really so different, Mycroft and I, from others? Why do we insist on being above all of this, this messy business of life?_ _I can't say that I'm above it, anymore. Not after this week, not after John. _

Sherlock reconsiders the enchantress's words. _Perhaps I've got it all wrong. Perhaps she is not telling Caliban to avoid love, but rather that it is __**because**__ he loves that he has a heart. It is because he loves that he is a human and not a wretched beast, for only humans have hearts that can be broken. _

The scene has changed. The strings are dying off, and John has sat back in his seat. Sherlock shifts in his seat, stretching out his legs, before turning his attention to the next aria.

* * *

><p>When the curtain fell an hour later, the confounded lovers had found each other at last, the glorious Prince had arrived in raiment to rival Louis Quatorze, and Ariel was freed from bondage – but Caliban was still alone. <em>Sympathetic character<em>, Sherlock thought. _Abu would have liked him, too. Soft spot for the underdogs, the _nacionales_, the younger sons of fairy tales – that was Abu._

At his side, John clapped loudly, leaning forward in his seat as the performers took their bows. Sherlock's applause was restrained, but he couldn't hold back the knot in his throat when Sycorax took her bow; the soprano's performance, in his opinion, was unparalleled.

John turned to look up at Sherlock. Over the applause he shouted, "Great show, wasn't it?" Sherlock continued to sit stiffly at his lover's side, only raising an eyebrow in response. When he saw the audience below rise all at once in a standing ovation, John stood in his seat, clapping all the more loudly and letting out a few catcalls before the curtain fell. Sherlock remained resolutely seated; it was his policy to reserve standing ovations for only one performance a year, and as he had already used up that quota when Evgeny Kissin performed the Liszt Sonata in B minor at Barbican Hall in February, he did not move from his seat.

As the applause died down, John sat down again, smiling broadly at Sherlock. "That was amazing," he said.

"Hardly a compliment, coming from you," Sherlock said.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John asked, with a note of irritation in his voice.

"Only that you call everything 'amazing.' The word loses its significance, after a while, if you use it too often."

John cocked his head. "Are you serious, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Problem?"

"Only that we just saw a spectacular performance, and you barely clapped."

"I clapped," Sherlock said in a clipped voice. "It doesn't do to stand at _every_ performance, you know."

"This isn't my first time at the opera. I think I know a good performance when I hear it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "And this was a good performance, then? According to John Watson?"

John sighed loudly. "So now I know how _you_ feel about it. What wasn't to like?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "The singers were first-rate – I'm hardly one to complain about Plácido, and the countertenors were especially good, all things considered – the set was original, and the costumes were entertaining. And the music – rarely do you hear two centuries of hits all together in an evening."

The rest of their box had emptied out, and Sherlock and John were alone again. John began to walk towards the door, Sherlock trailing him.

"I don't understand," the doctor began. "If the opera was so good, then why didn't you stand?"

"For the same reason that I don't go around calling everything 'amazing' all of the time. A standing ovation loses its meaning when it's employed too frequently."

"I disagree. First, I do _not_ go around calling everything 'amazing' all the bloody fucking time."

"No?"

"No, Sherlock! Think for a moment, why don't you! You may have heard me call _you_ amazing, and brilliant, and incredible, but don't think for a moment that that's what I tell everyone."

"It's not?"

"No, you idiot." Sherlock blinked. "Yes, you are an idiot, in addition to being numinous and spectacular and mind-blowing and gorgeous and all the rest. You are an idiot because you think that –"

"You _are_ rather hyperbolic, John."

They stood in the hallway of the parterre, Sherlock looking left and right, expecting Mycroft to appear at any second.

"I am _not_ exaggerating. And I _don't_ go around telling everyone that. I just—" he paused. " – I give compliments where they are due. No point being stingy, I always say. There are always people ready to criticize, ready to pounce on the slightest thing you do wrong. And I don't mean pounce on you, in particular, Sherlock, though God knows you could improve your bedside manner. I just mean, we don't let people know when they've done something well, most of the time. And it doesn't hurt to do so."

"I don't work at anyone's bedside," Sherlock retorted. "Except yours," he added with a slight smile.

"Fine. Not bedside manners. Just _manners_. Period."

"This is tiresome," Sherlock announced in a breathy voice, just as he saw Mycroft approaching. "Don't try to change me into someone I am not, John. It won't work."

"I'm not trying—"

"John. Sherlock." Mycroft tugged at his tie as he greeted them. "What a lovely performance. The Met really outdid themselves tonight."

John gave Sherlock a glance that implied _I told you so,_ before nodding to Mycroft.

"And now, gentlemen, shall we dine?"

"If we must," Sherlock grumbled, following as Mycroft led them to the banquet on the grand tier. The tables were covered in sea-green linen and glittery sequins, echoing the colours of the mermaids' tails and hinting at the fireworks that would follow the meal. When Mycroft found their table, and introduced them to a trio of American diplomats, John gave Sherlock a bewildered expression.

"I promised him we'd have dinner with him," Sherlock whispered. "He always insists upon it, on New Year's Eve."

"Alright. No problem. Now I know why," John whispered back. "Just—be on your best behaviour, okay?" He felt Sherlock's hand at the small of his back, leading him to his place setting. The detective pulled the chair out from the table, indicating to John that he should sit. As John lowered himself into the chair, Sherlock leaned down, placing his mouth close to John's ear. John shivered when he felt the hot breath on his temples, as Sherlock whispered: "Oh, don't worry. I'll save my bad behaviour for later. For _you._"

* * *

><p>After their supper of lobster salad, <em>bœuf bourguignon<em>, and fennel soup, they lingered at their table, watching the other guests at the gala. Most of the opera's stars were in attendance, though John had found it difficult at first to identify them without their extravagant costumes. He sipped at a small cup of espresso as his gaze followed Joyce DiDonato and Danielle DeNiese, striding arm-in-arm together across the balcony.

"Will you dance with me, Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, scant seconds after the Americans left the table. Sherlock's eyes darted to Mycroft, who looked amused.

"Don't mind me," he urged them. "There are a few other people here with whom I wish to speak."

"I wasn't worried about leaving you _alone_," Sherlock said snappishly. "God knows you're used to solitude."

"Indeed," Mycroft said blandly. "Usually, when three people are seated together, and two of them are an established couple—well, I wouldn't want to be the proverbial third wheel."

"As far as I'm concerned—" Sherlock started, but he didn't finish his sentence because John was pulling on his hands, and speaking to him, asking him to please come and dance, and apologizing to Mycroft. John really _was_ quite handsome in that suit, after all, and he wasn't going to pass up on another opportunity to lead him around a dance floor. He didn't know when they would have another chance. _Will John want to dance with me, when we get back to London? _Sherlock wondered. _Would he go out with me, if there were a chance of him running into someone he knew? Is he dancing with me now because he knows that we don't know a soul here beside Mycroft?_

"What's eating you, Sherlock?" John asked, as the taller man pulled him into a loose embrace.

"Nothing's 'eating' me," Sherlock said frostily.

"Come on, I know that's not true. You've been on edge ever since the opera ended."

"I do not like to socialize with my brother," Sherlock said.

"Yet you knew that was coming. Plus, you had your pants in a twist before we even saw Mycroft. You didn't want to stand for the applause, and you didn't want to admit that it was a good performance, even though you bloody well knew that it was spectacular."

"There you go using that word again. _Spectacular. _You've already said it once tonight. Do try to be original, John," Sherlock spat out, as he led John in a waltz of sorts. Their movements were awkward, nothing like the spontaneous fluidity of their dancing at the U.N. Ball. John was reminded of dancing lessons at primary school, when all the young boys had to dance together because there were no girls. It had been awkward then, too, all of that effort to follow the steps while avoiding the other's body, the other's gaze; they had danced like zombies, as if propelled by nervous energy alone, all desire firmly held in check.

"This is _exactly_ what I meant," John retorted. "There's no reason to be in such a snit. I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves."

"Are you not enjoying yourself? Sherlock asked archly.

John sighed. He was tempted to pound his head against Sherlock's chest in frustration, but instead he insinuated himself more closely into Sherlock's arms.

"I would be enjoying myself a lot more if my dancing partner weren't such a prick," he whispered. "If he could remember, for once, that the people around him care about him, and want to know what's on his mind."

"_People_ don't care about me," Sherlock said. "_You _care."

"I won't argue with that," John said, thinking it was better to not tell Sherlock that a number of other people also cared about him. _I don't know what's got into him tonight,_ John mused. _This was supposed to be an evening out, and – oh! Tonight. The roses. The anniversary. Of course. Of course Sherlock is out of sorts. How did I not see this earlier?_

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"Do you want to talk? About your mother?"

Sherlock did not reply for half a minute. Almost imperceptibly, John felt the other man's arms tighten around him, until he was firmly clasped in his partner's embrace. _Progress_, John thought. _If only he'll speak. _

"I don't want to talk about her," Sherlock said. "But if you—if you have any questions, I'll answer them."

"Interesting," John commented. "Yes, I do have some questions. But first—what do you think I should know about her?"

"Oh, you'll probably want to know when she died, and how, and what happened to my father. All the common questions."

"Has anyone ever asked you those things before?" John looked up at Sherlock's face, examining him carefully.

"No."

"No?"

"No. No one has ever asked me."

"Interesting."

"You keep saying that," Sherlock observed.

"Well, it _is_ interesting that no one would ever think to ask you about your family."

"What do _you_ think, John? Take a guess."

"What do I think about what?"

"What do you think happened? How did my mother die? What happened to my father? Go on, try to guess. Or, better still, deduce."

John pulled back slightly from Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on his lover's face.

"You want me to _deduce_ you?"

"Yes. I've taught you well enough. You should be able to figure this out."

"Well…." John paused, wondering how much to say, how much to hold back. _I bet Sherlock never even __**thinks**__ to hold anything back_, he reasoned with himself. _So why should I?_ "Okay, you really want me to do this, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Because I may say things you don't want to hear."

"Go ahead." Sherlock had an unreadable expression on his face, as if he were trying to hold back a smile.

"First, I'd say that she died when you were young. Young enough to still call her 'Mummy.' That's why you and Mycroft refer to her by that name, even today. You're adults, but you weren't an adult when your mother died. Hence, 'Mummy' she will always be to you. Am I right?"

"Go on," Sherlock said.

"She played at Ravenna when you were nine years old. So she was still alive then. And you would have stopped calling her Mummy soon after, at least by puberty, if she had lived that long. But she didn't, right? She died before then. And Mycroft probably didn't call her that name, because he's so much older, except when he was around you. You were the baby of the family, and he called her Mummy for your sake. So I'd put her death sometime between the time you were nine and thirteen."

"Right, there," Sherlock said. "Better than I thought you'd do."

"I am going to guess—"

"Don't guess. _Deduce._"

"I am going to deduce, then – oh for gods sake, you know that I'm just guessing here! Fine. I'll deduce that she died when you were twelve. That was the year when you learned German. Your mother died, and your father sent you to Germany for some reason. Boarding school? Am I right?"

"I wanted to go to Spain," Sherlock said. "But he said that Heidelberg would be better, for philosophy and physics."

"You were twelve years old. Twelve years old! Don't tell me that he sent you to university when you were twelve years old!"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "You were doing so well, too. Not university. Heidelberg does have a number of outstanding secondary schools as well as the university. I was enrolled in a boys' school."

"So you went to secondary in Germany. Explains a lot. No one does logic like the Germans, right? Anyhow, Sherlock, back to the guessing game. Your mother died, unexpectedly I would say. New Year's Eve suggests an accident, rather than a disease. Drunk driver?"

"Both drivers were drunk," Sherlock stated blandly.

"Fuck, Sherlock." John's face took on an expression of pity. "I'm sorry."

"Don't feel sorry for me."

"If I don't, who will? Sherlock, if I worked this out correctly, then your mother died when you were twelve, in an automobile accident. Judging from the look on your face, and the complete absence of any reference, ever, to your father, I would say that _he_ was the driver. Am I correct?"

Sherlock would not meet John's eye.

"Your father was driving, and he was drunk—"

"They both were drunk. It wouldn't have mattered if she had been the one driving that night. It would have happened anyway."

"That's not what you thought then, is it, Sherlock? You blamed your father. And why shouldn't you? I probably would have blamed him, too, if I had been in your position."

"They both were drunk."

"Ah! So you blame both of them, is that it?"

"I don't _blame_ anyone. That would be ridiculous. Neither of them wanted to die. They made a mistake, one that millions of other people make on that night. No different."

"It _was_ different," John said gently. "It was different, because they were _your parents. _Of course it was different, for you. It had to have felt that way. Every death matters to the people who love them."

"If you're saying that I was upset about it, of course I was. I didn't speak to my father for a year. But that was childishness, and I got over it, soon enough."

"I wish that I could believe you, Sherlock. As much as I wish that were the end of the story. But there's still so much I don't understand. Why do you hate Mycroft so much? Why don't you talk about your father, still? What happened to him?"

"Are you done?" Sherlock asked archly. "Done with your deductions?"

"Would you like me to go on?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. This is tedious. You're not telling me anything new."

"It's tedious, and you want me to stop. But that's not really why. It isn't nice, is it, Sherlock, when people see you too clearly? When they know why you are hurting?"

"I don't mind if you see me," Sherlock said.

"Maybe not, but it has to be on your own terms, doesn't it?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That you want to be the one who sets the terms. Who tells me things, when _you_ want them to be known."

"Is that so bad?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

"Not at all. In fact, it's what most people want, usually: to be left alone with their own problems until they decide that it's time to talk about them."

"Your point?" Sherlock drew back slightly, looking down at John, scanning his face in order to discern what John thought, what John felt.

"Just that you do this to me, all the time. I'm an open book to you, Sherlock. I should be used to that, but it does bother me sometimes when you deduce something about me that I'd rather not talk about just yet. And it doesn't surprise me, but it does irk me a bit, that you can't stand to have someone do the same to you. Especially since I care about you more than anybody, and I'm not asking you these things to make you upset."

"Do you mean that you care more about me than you care about anyone else, or that no one else cares about me as much as you do?"

"Both, I would venture. I love you, Sherlock. But only you can say if anyone else cares about you the way that I do."

Sherlock did not respond at first, but he gripped John more tightly in his arms. "John—John, I—" He danced John over to the side of the dance floor, bringing them both to a halt next to a pair of slender twins. Sherlock took John's face between his palms as his wide eyes stared down at John. The twins scattered away, as if startled by the sight of two men in such a close embrace. John looked at them with concern. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.

"Ignore them," Sherlock demanded. "It's not as if we're the only two men dancing together tonight. Look around: who do you think attends the opera, nowadays? Grey-haired dames and gay men."

"It's not that," John protested. "I don't blame them for leaving. You look like you are about to say something serious. Maybe they don't want to be in your way." He chuckled, but there was a nervous ring to his laughter.

"Why are you scared of me?" Sherlock asked.

"Scared? I'm not scared of you. Hell, I'm just longing for you to get out of this foul mood you are in. What can I do to speed it along?"

"Besides giving me a cordial of oblivion? Nothing, John."

"So it's that bad, is it?" There was no anxiety in John's voice now; he was calm, collected. He knew about pain and grief, and he knew when pressing the topic only made it hurt all the more.

"I told you, it's tedious to talk about." John smiled at that; only Sherlock would say something was _tedious _in order to disguise his discomfort.

John looked down at his watch. It was fifteen minutes to midnight. "Well, then, what do you say we head out to the plaza? They'll be setting off the fireworks, soon. And then we can go home." _Funny, how the Hudson Hotel feels like home, now, and it's only been a week,_ he thought. _But then again, Baker Street felt like home after only one night! It took me that long to save Sherlock's life, and after that, there was no turning back, was there? I can't ever turn away from this man, this crazy, broken man. And I hope he'll never find me tedious, never tell me to bugger off – or, at least, never mean it when he says it, because I know he'll keep saying it, and not meaning it, and expecting me to ignore him, which of course I will. I'll do all that, and more—_

"Come, John," Sherlock said in a gravelly voice, taking John's hand and pulling him across the floor. They made their way down the circular stairs of the Opera House, picking up their coats before heading out into the night.

The fountain was running in the centre of the plaza, despite the cold weather. Underwater lights illuminated jets of water, calling attention to the structure. It caught John's eye and he gestured for Sherlock to follow him through the loosely scattered groups of people. When they reached the fountain, they paused to watch the play of lights on the water, the ripples and windsongs forming in the pool. A dark marble ledge circled the perimeter of the fountain and John was tempted to sit on it, but as he reached his hands out to touch it, he felt water under his fingertips. Shaking away a few drops, he grabbed Sherlock's hands, then pulled his friend to face him, until their chests were only a few inches apart.

"May I kiss you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded his assent and bowed his head down so that John could reach him. The first brush of the doctor's lips over his was surprisingly tender; Sherlock had expected an impassionate, angry kiss, the sort that _he_ would have given John, if John had been an arse all evening. He had not thought that John would treat him with such gentleness, such reassurance, after his quarrelsome behaviour at the gala. Sherlock reached his hands up to John's head, one hand pulling him closer by the nape of his neck, the other caressing the skin under his chin. John murmured and sighed beneath him, tilting his face upwards to give Sherlock better access to his neck. Thus encouraged, the younger man ran his lips across the edge of John's jaw, trailing kisses down his neck before burrowing his face in John's collar.

"Sherlock," John said affectionately. "I think they're going to start the fireworks soon. Look!" He pointed across the plaza, to an area that had been cordoned off. A group of men and women were working furiously to stack boxes and erect a launch pad. John looked down at his watch. "We have a couple of minutes until midnight," he said. "Any last-minute wishes for the new year?"

"Wishes?" Sherlock asked, sounding puzzled. "Is that what people do, for the new year?"

"Why not?" John returned, giving Sherlock a peck on the cheek.

"Sounds better than making resolutions one can't keep," the younger man observed. "Alright, then. Wishes. Wishes, wishes, wishes," he mused. "I wish…"

"Don't tell me!" John interrupted. "You can't tell me your wish, or it won't come true."

"Who says so?"

"Everyone knows that, Sherlock. You have to keep your wish a secret or it won't come true."

"But the only way this wish _can_ come true is if I tell it to you!"

"Fine, fine. You can tell me, but don't tell me now. Tell me later, once we get back to Baker Street. Or is that too late?"

"That will be fine," Sherlock said, kissing John's mouth. "The wish will keep. May I kiss you now?"

"I thought that's what you were doing," the other man said, between kisses.

"I thought it would be better to ask."

"Not when I've been kissing you for several minutes already, Sherlock. And not when it's New Year's Eve. Everyone kisses when the new year comes."

Sherlock scoffed. "I like to be ahead of schedule—" he began, but then all of the people around them were counting down from ten, and a renegade firework shot up over the plaza – nine! – and John pulled Sherlock closer to him – eight! – and John's lips were over his again, only this time John had opened his mouth and was pressing his tongue against Sherlock's palate – seven six five four three! – as someone somewhere was playing "Auld Lang Syne" on a pair of bagpipes – two one zero! – and it really and truly was the new year, in a new country, and the entire night, the entire year, stretched out before them.

"A drink?" John asked. "Back at the hotel, perhaps?" He looked up, watching the fireworks cross the plaza, bright blazes of red and purple that disappeared into the night.

"I've got tickets for somewhere else." John tilted his head, curious. "Don't worry, it's just across the street, we barely have to walk. And we can get completely sloshed if we want to, and still get home on foot. The Empire Hotel. Rooftop bar, we can see views of Central Park and Lincoln Center from there, too. I hear they have quite the party going on, and it's still open bar until two o'clock."

John whistled. "Don't tell me that you had this _entire_ trip planned out ahead of time. The plane, the hotel, the opera, now _this._ I keep thinking: what if I had been foolish and hadn't come at all? I could have missed all of this, missed _you_."

"You never would have stayed behind. Don't think about it." Sherlock was kissing him again, kissing him and shouting at him above the din of the fireworks. "I knew you, and I knew you'd come. If only because you wanted to avoid another Christmas with Harry."

"Not true!"

"Yes, true. But I don't mind. I would have kidnapped you if that was what it took to get you here."

"Really? You're as bad as Mycroft."

"I'm worse." Sherlock smiled broadly, one of his rare genuine smiles. "Come, now. Let's leave the plaza before the fireworks end and everyone tries to get out at once."

"After you," John said, watching Sherlock wend his way through the crowd as he headed towards Amsterdam Avenue. The crowd parted to let the tall man in the long coat pass. Sherlock turned back to clutch John's hand, and together they descended the shallow steps and left the Plaza.


	27. Pax XXVII

"This is boring," Sherlock complained, as he leaned back further in his seat and looked around the lounge of the Empire Hotel. He and John had been there scarcely fifteen minutes, but Sherlock had already deduced the professions of the occupants of a nearby table, insulted the coatroom attendant by observing that Chanel No. 5 made her smell old, and had sent his caipirinha back to the bar, complaining that they had used Cuban rum instead of _cachaça._

"You're in right mood tonight," John observed.

"Don't I know it!" Sherlock snapped back at him.

John shrugged. "We don't have to be here, you know," he said. "We can always go back to the hotel. Or, if you like – go somewhere else?"

"Go _where_, John?" Sherlock pouted. "There isn't a bar in this city that will be quiet, and I know that you like to get sloshed on New Year's."

John opened his eyes wide. "Sloshed? Not how I'd put it. But speaking of …" He trailed off, smiling up at the dark-haired waitress who had brought them their drinks on a white tray.

"_Pro cavalheiro que gosta da cachaça autêntica_," she said with a wink, setting down an old-fashioned for John and a caipirinha for Sherlock.

"_Muito obrigado_," Sherlock said, brightening a bit at the opportunity to use another of his languages. "_Você é de qual parte do Brasil_?"

"_Sou carioca_."

"_Ah, de Rio de Janeiro_," he said smoothly. "_A cidade maravilhosa. E o que você faz aqui em Nova Iorque, tão longe de Ipanema_?"

"_Eu poderia te perguntar o mesmo, um estrangeiro tão elegante e bom vestido, não como os americanos_, " she said in a coquettish voice.

"Sherlock?" John interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

"The best beaches in Rio," Sherlock lied. "She says she prefers Copacabana, but I much prefer Leblon."

"You didn't use those words, Sherlock," John said peevishly. "All I heard was Ipanema." He began to hum the song under his breath. _Tall and tan and young and lovely…._

"Didn't I?" Sherlock tried his best to look innocent.

"Nope." John shook his head, then he looked up to the waitress. "May I have a glass of ice water?" he asked in the poshest voice that he could muster.

"Right away, sir," she murmured, before clasping the empty tray to her chest and walking away from them.

"What was _that_ all about?" John asked.

"Brazilian, late 20s, I'd say she came here on a tourist visa, overstayed her welcome, tried to get modeling work, found it was too hard, settled on waitressing until she has her 'big break.' "

"She was flirting with you," John stated.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Was she? I wouldn't know."

"Of course you would know. You notice everything about people. She liked you, Sherlock."

"Are you jealous?"

_How could I be jealous, _John thought. _How could I possibly be jealous of a stranger when I am here with you, in New York of all places. You brought me here for a reason, Sherlock, and if I'm not mistaken, I think that reason was to seduce me. Well done. I'm completely taken in. And I'm not going to give you up. Nor am I going to get jealous just because you pull out the charm with our Brazilian server. I know by now when it's an act. _

"You're better than this, Sherlock," John said calmly. He took a large draught of his drink and noticed that Sherlock was downing his own rather quickly, as well.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, waiting for John to continue. When he did not, the detective asked him what he meant.

"Only that you're a better man than this. Better than you have been tonight."

"Don't be like Mycroft," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "Don't lecture me, John. I won't have it from you."

"Yes, you _will_," John said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, staring intently into Sherlock's eyes. "You will have it any way I want it." Sherlock struggled to keep from blinking, but John's gaze was too intense, and he was forced to look away first. John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "You know what you really need?"

"A spanking?" Sherlock said in a pouty voice. John burst out laughing.

"Far too late for me to be the one to provide you with _that_. And I don't play that way, in any case." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, thinking of how John had kissed him earlier that afternoon, pressing him against the wall of their hotel room, pinning his arms above him so that he could not move. He didn't quite agree with John's claim that he 'didn't play that way', but he decided to let it pass.

John reached for his whisky and took another generous sip, feeling the liquid burning in the back of his throat. "No, it's not a spanking you need. You just need someone to tell you when you're being impossible. Someone who is not your family, and doesn't work for Scotland Yard." He took a deep breath. "I know you didn't care a thing for that waitress. But you thought it might bother me if you began to speak to her, in another language, no less. And for some reason – ah! Ah! Wait, don't interrupt me!" John held up his hand to signal Sherlock to be quiet. The other man shut his mouth and absently twirled his drink with a straw. "For some reason, you wanted to make me jealous. Which is ridiculous, really." John leaned forward again, circling his fingers around one of Sherlock's wrists. They both felt a shock when they touched, but neither pulled away.

"Is it really ridiculous?" Sherlock asked in a soft voice. "Is it ridiculous to think that you could do so much better than me, when you were about to leave Baker Street?"

John wrinkled his brow. "Leaving Baker Street?" He shook his head, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's palm. "Silly. I'm not going to leave Baker Street now. Surely you've figured that out." He looked up at Sherlock. "Or haven't you?" Sherlock looked away from him. "Look, I – I don't want to leave Baker Street. And I don't want to leave you, okay? This week has been – I can't even begin to describe it. Probably one of the most important weeks of my life."

"_Moça_," Sherlock cried out just then, as their waitress passed their table. He gestured for her to bring the check.

"Sherlock!" John said sternly. "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

"It's time to go," Sherlock announced, downing the rest of his caipirinha in one long swallow.

"Yes, I'd picked up that much when you asked for the bill." John dropped his head into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. He rubbed his eyes with his palms before looking up at Sherlock again. "You are impossible, you know that?"

Sherlock smirked.

"You rotter, _say_ something!" John said angrily. "Don't leave me hanging here. I've just bared myself to you, told you again – and not for the first time – that you're terribly important to me. And then you go and do it again."

"Do what?"

"Change the subject. Ask disinterested. Ignore me." The waitress dropped the check on their table. Sherlock grabbed for it, looked it over quickly, and withdrew his wallet from his coat. He left a few folded bills on the table, then stood and pulled his coat over his shoulders.

"I'm not ignoring you, John. You finished your old-fashioned in less than ten minutes, which, combined with the champagne and wine that you had at dinner, makes this the fourth drink of the evening for you. Probably not enough to get you totally drunk, as is your wont on New Year's Eve, but enough to put you in an over-emotional state. You _are_ the kind of drunk who gets sentimental, aren't you? Or do you get angry?"

"I'd always thought of myself as an _earnest _drunk, actually," John said, pleased that he was still sober enough to correct Sherlock. "Which is why I'd much rather be discussing the important things in life, and toasting to Auld Lang Syne, and forming resolutions, and all of that, instead of fending off the quarrel that you so obviously want to pick with me right now."

Sherlock cocked his head, looked down at John, and opened his mouth to let out a loud chuckle. His laugh was richly timbred and deep, and hearing his lover let forth in that way, hearing no bitterness in the laughter, John knew that the dark mood had passed.

"Come, John," the detective said, extending his hand to help John stand. "Come, let's walk. And then we can talk of all the earnest things that you desire. Of shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax…"

John smiled up at him. "It's quite a warm evening. I wouldn't mind a stroll, myself."

"My thoughts, exactly." Sherlock turned and led John out of the bar and to the elevator.

Once inside the elevator, which thankfully was empty except for them, Sherlock stood close in front of John, grasping his upper arms and staring resolutely into the doctor's face before dipping down for a soft kiss. John felt the tension in his body release as he leaned into Sherlock's mouth, feeling the apology in the gentle kisses that Sherlock was brushing over his mouth. _This is not easy for him,_ John reminded himself. _Patience, patience, I've got to have patience. Because this is so absolutely lovely, like nothing I've ever had before and nothing I'm likely to have ever again. And I want it to last. So I'll be patient. I'll let him lead. _

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, pulling away from his lover as the elevator doors opened and they stepped out onto the landing.

"About you," the older man said matter-of-factly.

"Anything interesting?"

"Depends on what you consider interesting." John looked around them as they left the hotel and came out on Amsterdam Avenue again. "Right now, I'm wondering where we should go."

"The Park is that way," Sherlock said, pointing east. "I thought we'd go for a stroll there, show you Belvedere Castle; they light it up at night."

"Is that a good idea?"

"What?" Sherlock had begun to stride away, but he slowed down to look back at John. "Why ever not?"

"Oh, I don't know. Large urban park, New Year's Eve, people have had a lot to drink, coming home from bars. Just thought you might want to avoid it."

"Let's go down to the river, then," Sherlock said. "The piers at 72nd street should still be open. And they won't be as popular."

They walked uptown on Broadway, then crossed over to the river at 72nd Street. The night was unseasonably warm, and foggy, and though the city was not as busy as John had thought it would be, there were still plenty of people strolling along the sidewalks: large groups of boisterous youth, couples holding hands, drunken suburban mothers.

"There are several university dorms near here," Sherlock observed, as they passed a large group of young people, gaily singing a song by Adele. "We're not far from Fordham, and I met with some people from John Jay the day I had to be at the airport."

"What are those, schools?" John asked.

"Yes. Universities – or colleges? I'm never quite sure what the Americans call them. Anyway," Sherlock gestured to a man with a school sweatshirt, "I'm sure these kids go there. John Jay teaches forensic science, you know."

"Nope, I didn't."

"The federal agents at the Frick studied there. Oh, and here is one of the older subway entrances. Did you know that the subway lines used to be owned and operated by different companies? That's why some use numbers and some use letters to mark the lines. The numbered lines were run by one company, the letters by another. It was lines like these that opened up the Upper West and Upper East sides to residential settlement."

"Hmm," John said.

"Yes, no one wanted to live so far 'uptown' without means of getting there. Why, back when Henry James and Edith Wharton were writing about New York, Washington Square was the height of fashion, and the East 20s were considered to be too far uptown to be genteel!"

"Interesting," John observed.

They continued conversing in this way – Sherlock rattling on about New York trivia, John patiently listening – until they arrived at Riverside Park, which bordered the river.

"Ah!," Sherlock exclaimed once they crossed Riverside Drive and stood next to the balustrade that looked over the park. "If I remember correctly, there's a trail somewhere that will lead us to the river."

"What kind of trail?" John said, somewhat nervously. He didn't know if there were any deer in New York City, but the dark woods below them, bordering the river, looked like they might harbor a creature or two.

"Oh, more like a road than a trail," Sherlock said. "Paved, but for bicycles, strollers, no cars." He looked downtown, then up again. "I think we have to go up another block," he said, leading John along the balustrade until they reached an entryway with a long set of stairs that led downwards.

"After you," John said, looking around to make sure that they didn't have a tail.

"No one's following us, if that's what you're worried about," Sherlock said. "I made sure of that when we left Broadway." John almost lost sight of the taller man as Sherlock descended into the shadows at the base of the steps.

"Wait up," John called, rushing to join Sherlock.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark," Sherlock scoffed.

"You are probably the most frightening thing within a one-mile radius, Sherlock," John said.

"Only one mile?" Sherlock asked sardonically. "Why not two? Or ten?"

"Fine. Most frightening person I know. _You_. Now, tell me where we're going."

Sherlock grabbed John's elbow with one hand and pointed to the river with the other. "See those lights down there? That's the pier at 72nd St. Come _on_!"

And then Sherlock was running, and John was running after him, down the smooth path that lead them across a bicycle trail and next to a volleyball court and beside a pile of chairs at a restaurant, until Sherlock sprinted ahead and John could not keep up. His coat billowed after him as John watched him run onto the Pier – more of a landing, really, wide and new and dotted with streetlamps and benches – and run and run until he reached the railing at the far end, which he clutched with both hands as if to prevent himself from rolling over and into the river.

John caught up with him a few moments later, breathing heavily. Before he had a moment to catch his breath, Sherlock's arms were around him, pulling him close to his chest, where John nestled into the taller man's shoulder. But Sherlock nudged John's head upwards, so that his face was mere inches from Sherlock's, and then they were kissing again – _When will this stop?_ John wondered. _When will I stop feeling like this, so completely undone by him? Will it be like this in London? When I chase after him there, will the chase end with a kiss, like this one? Or will it be like all the others, Sherlock pursuing a criminal and me pursuing Sherlock and Lestrade and Anderson following close after both of us? What will it be like, now?_

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock whispered in his ear. His breath was warm against the cool night air, forming clouds of condensation around John's temple.

"Nothing," John murmured. "Just – just, Sherlock?"

"Yes?" rumbled his lover's deep voice.

"Can we not have this end? Just – don't change, please. For me."

Sherlock kissed him softly, all lips and no tongue, before asking John to explain himself.

"I thought I was the one who wanted everything to stay the same, the one who didn't want to grow up. And now you're playing at Peter Pan, too, John, and I'm afraid it doesn't suit you. Doesn't suit you at all." There was a sly, joking tone to his voice, suggesting something that John couldn't make out.

"What? Why?—" he began.

"I'm here," Sherlock said. "Like you said: I can't promise you more than that. Either of us could be killed tomorrow."

"I should hope we _aren't_ killed tomorrow, thank you very much!"

"You're joking because you're nervous. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to _marry me_. This isn't one of those speeches." John's eyelids fluttered opened and his heart began to beat faster, hearing those words coming from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Though I'm not sure that isn't what you'd like me to say. Am I correct? No matter. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose, as the old teacher once said. But I digress." Sherlock paused, pulling John closer to him. "Do you know what I would very much like to do to you, right now? Take you home – to Baker Street, not to that dratted hotel – and wrap you up under my sheets and blankets, and have you to myself for an entire day. No computer, no cases, no clinic. Just you and me, John. Would you like that?"

"Yes…" John said breathily, not knowing exactly what Sherlock was driving at.

"And we would make love, of course, and then you would ask me about the books I have, and my photographs – don't tell me you haven't been dying to ask me about Edgar Allen, and I know you want to see pictures of me as a child, which I'm afraid won't be possible as Mycroft keeps all of the family photo albums. No, what I had in mind was more of the kind of day in bed that everyone always goes on and on about, when you don't leave the bed except to eat and shower and fetch a book to read, and then you return and your lover is there, under _your_ sheets, sleeping on _your_ – _my, _I should say – pillow. And I'd find the most delightful ways to wake you up, John. You don't think I can be romantic but I assure you—" he paused, driving up the tension "—I can be as romantic as the occasion requires. And this occasion would be very, very romantic." He looked across the river, pausing to admire the lights on the Jersey shore.

"I love you, you know," John said. "I love you. You don't have to tell me these things, I would love you anyway."

"Ha!" Sherlock said. "I know you would. But that's not why I'm saying them. I'm saying them because I _can_ and because I really want to. Do you believe me?"

"Believe what?"

"That I can be a romantic? That I want you?"

"What is this all about, Sherlock?" John asked, pulling back to get a good look at Sherlock's face.

"Me being with you. Me being a romantic. Us going back to London."

"If you wanted to talk about London, you could have just said so!" John said, laughing. "God knows it has been on my mind, too."

"Is that why you said that you don't want things to change?" Sherlock's eyes grew wide, like a child, curious and amazed. "Because you think that things will change when we go back to London?"

"Yes," admitted the other man. "Because I don't think this enchanted week will last forever. And I'm – to tell you the truth, Sherlock – I'm afraid of that. I'm afraid of this ending."

"But that's _ridiculous_, John," Sherlock protested. "You know that I want you to _always_ be with me. You _must_ know that."

"I didn't, actually. But thanks, um, that's—that's good. Very good."

Sherlock hugged John closer and put a light kiss on his lips. "Now is an appropriate time to say the same," he reminded him.

"Oh, yes, I – dammit, what do you want me to say, Sherlock? I've told you, I love you!"

"And you aren't going to leave me," Sherlock prodded.

"And I'm not going to leave you, you git."

"And you are going to move into my bedroom when we get back to Baker Street."

"And I'm going to move into—wait, Sherlock! Why _your_ bedroom?"

"Because it's larger," Sherlock said reasonably. "And because your room has better ventilation."

"Better than where?"

"Better than the kitchen. I thought you'd approve."

"Of you turning my room into a lab?"

"Of you moving into my room. We don't have to turn your room into a lab if you don't like. I can just as well keep using the kitchen—"

"No! The lab idea is fine. It's all fine, Sherlock. You, me, _this,_" he gestured back and forth between me. "It's all more than fine. It's the best thing that I could have ever imagined."

"Now who is the sentimental one?" Sherlock smirked. _That's it, _he thought, _laugh and him and he won't know how much this means to you. Laugh and he'll be the one with more to lose. No, that's not right. I don't want to laugh at John. I shouldn't keep things back from him, not if I want him like this, this same happy John, when we get back to Baker Street. _Inspired, Sherlock whispered, "If you ever, _ever_ leave me, John Hamish Watson, I will come after you. Wherever you are. War zone or Piccadilly, I will find you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Most definitely."

* * *

><p>They wandered down the path that followed the river the length of the island, reaching Chelsea piers just as dawn broke. The first glimmers of light were shining on the river when John and Sherlock arrived at the construction site near the former World Trade Towers.<p>

"This is where it all began," John commented, looking upwards at the half-completed skyscrapers that ringed the site where the towers had fallen.

"Where what started?" Sherlock asked. There were any number of things John could mean, and he wanted to know more.

"The wars, of course," John said with a sigh, releasing Sherlock's hands. "Iraq. Afghanistan. This is where it all began."

"But surely, you know that it didn't _really _begin here," Sherlock observed. "Anti-American sentiment has existed as long as – well, at least as long as anti-British feelings began to wane. Let's pin it down to the end of World War II. Or we could look even earlier, when the Yankees refused to involve themselves until 1917 in the Great War, though their isolationist policies were far more upsetting to their European allies than to any colonials in the Orient, who may have thought that an allied defeat would lead to their own independence."

"I thought you didn't care for politics," John answered. "I thought that Mycroft took politics and umbrellas, and you took forensics and scarves. At least, that's how I imagine things got divvied up in the Holmes household."

"No, _he_ took the piano and mille feuille and the viscountcy, and I took violin and cocaine and my mother's inheritance. But that's beside the point."

"Quite," John said amiably. "The point was, at least I thought it was the point—the point was, we're here at the site where the Towers fell, where New York was attacked. And that attack led, almost directly, to military involvement in the Middle East. Including, in some roundabout way, my own deployment in Afghanistan. Which ended, as well you know, with my invalidation, my return to England, and my meeting you. So this here-" he waved expansively, "—is also part of my story. _Our_ story."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed. "But I have to admit, I like the ending much more than the beginning." He squeezed John's hand tightly.

"Meaning?"

"I'm glad you're here with me now. I'm glad I met you when I did. I wouldn't have known what to do with Dr. John Watson, RAMC."

"I think you would have known _exactly_ what to do with him," John said in a low voice.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I would have had the foggiest. But _now_, my dear Watson—" He looked down at his watch. Seven o'clock. They had walked and talked for nearly the entire night.

"Happy New Year," John said. "Any chance I could convince you to try that day in bed? The one that you mentioned before? I know we're not at Baker Street, but I could certainly use the rest."

Sherlock stepped towards the edge of the sidewalk, holding out one arm over the street as he called "Taxi!" A yellow cab smoothly pulled over.

"We have exactly thirty hours left in New York," Sherlock said. "And I don't want to waste a single minute."

"Do I at least get to sleep?" John asked, hopefully.

"Yes, John. Six to sleep, then six to laze about, then another six—"

John interrupted him as he opened the cab door. "Let's just get back to the hotel. The whole idea of a day in bed is that _there isn't a schedule. _Get in!"

Sherlock closed the door behind them, and they headed back to the Hudson Hotel.

* * *

><p>AN: I am sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter; it is a sort of transitionary moment in their visit and it was hard to pin down. But at last I'm finished with it, so here it is for you! Hoping to finish by the end of the week. Yes, finish. As in, THE END.


	28. PAX XXVIII

"I'm knackered," John said as he pushed open the door to their hotel. "Let me sleep a while, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded distractedly as he headed towards the table with his laptop.

"What time is the flight tomorrow?" John asked with a yawn.

"Thirteen-hundred. We need to be there by ten-thirty, at the latest."

"I suppose that staying up all night can only help with the jetlag, right?" Sherlock looked confused. "Oh, right, you don't need sleep, why would you ever get jetlagged? I'm off to bed. Don't wake me up."

Sometime later that day, when the sun had almost begun its descent over the Hudson, John felt the mattress shake as Sherlock joined him under the eiderdown. He whimpered in protest, hoping that Sherlock would give him a few more minutes of sleep. But Sherlock wrapped himself around John, pressing his chest against John's back, and simply lay there beside him, listening to their beating hearts.

"John," he murmured.

"Yes?"

"Nothing. I just like to say your name. _John_." Sherlock let out a deep, contented sigh before falling asleep next to his lover.

* * *

><p>John didn't sleep much that night – there was too much to do, what with packing and love-making and drinking tempranillo and eating figs and piave and prosciutto – but he slept the next day, on the plane. The last thing he remembered was leaning over Sherlock to get a glimpse of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty before the roar of the engines lulled him to sleep. He woke a few hours later, his neck resting awkwardly against Sherlock's shoulder. The detective was working on his laptop, seemingly deep in concentration, but when John began to stir, he rested his hand on his companion's head, running his long fingers through John's fair hair.<p>

"How long did I sleep?"

Sherlock looked at the clock on his screen. "Four hours, twenty-two minutes."

"Damn. How much longer to Heathrow?"

"This flight takes, on average, seven and a half hours. You fell asleep eight minutes after take-off. That leaves us three hours, if we make average speed."

John let out a groan. "I never thought _I_ would be the one to complain of boredom." Sherlock smiled a half-smile. "What have you been working on this whole time?"

"Research for Mycroft," Sherlock said in a brisk voice.

"I thought you were done with all that."

"Just a few loose ends to make sense of, names to match across databases, that sort of thing. Should only take me a few more hours. It's the kind of thing I don't need a connection for, so I saved it for the plane ride."

"You never told me why you agreed to take this case for Mycroft, you know." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly.

"I think I'd like to use the loo," he said. "Would you mind—"

"Nice try, Sherlock. But don't change the subject on me. I know that trick by now. If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

"I agreed to take it in exchange for a favour."

"So I had gathered. What was the favour?"

"Do I have to say?"

"No, but you've piqued my curiosity. It's not everyday that you'll help Mycroft out, you know."

"No, it's not," Sherlock said softly, closing his laptop and turning to John. "I—it's not something I like thinking about. Not the way he went about it."

"About what?" John asked, as puzzled as ever.

"Would either of you gentlemen care for a beverage?" A tall man in a steward's uniform was addressing them.

"Yes, cold water," John said.

"Nothing for me," Sherlock said with a glare. The steward returned with a glass of water.

"You were saying…" John prodded.

"I think I need to start a bit earlier for it to all make sense."

"Go right ahead. We have—" John looked down at his watch, "—oh, about two hours and fifty-three minutes, if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock remembered his mother's will, which came first (of course it came first, she died first) and which surprised him with its generosity – he had not expected to inherit all of her estate – and he vaguely remembered his father's will, which came later and which had left Mycroft the viscountcy and the Holmes manor (no surprise there, laws of primogeniture and tradition and all that). But Sherlock was gone to the cocaine by then – gone, _ido_, as the Spanish would say, as in _gone mad_ – and he hadn't known the details. He did remember that there had been some talk of what to do with his mother's trust once Sherlock came of age, in that interval between Violeta's death and his father's passing (an interval otherwise known as Sherlock's adolescence, years spent in Heidelberg and Edinburgh and, later, at Cambridge), when Sherlock was already showing signs of what would later be deemed an "addiction" (silly term, he much preferred the Portuguese, _vício_, with all its suggestions of sin; a vice indicated that there was choice involved, free will, which 'addiction' negated). Mycroft had been feeling particularly moralistic back then, it must have been around that time that he had joined the Service, and all caught up with the pride of _serving_ (Serve, surveillance, _Surveiller et punir_, who was the Frenchman who wrote that book? Might as well have been a field manual for Mycroft Holmes.), Mycroft had decided that one element of the Holmes family was too unpredictable. Discipline and punish, indeed.

All this, and Sherlock was caught up in a haze of coke and Satie and some very late Beethoven, and he couldn't be bothered to charge his phone, or install a land line, or even comb through the scant post that arrived for him. Mycroft was almost compelled to send a telegram—yes, a _telegram_, in that day and age—or go down to London himself and drag Sherlock out of whatever foxhole he was living in to be at their father's bedside. But a second attack followed the first, too quickly for Mycroft to sniff out Sherlock, and Sherlock never knew about either one until it was too late.

There had been a funeral, a rather large one, it turned out; he heard about it later from Mycroft. He never was involved much with Mycroft's and Sigur's conversations about the Portnoy estate—he had thought that his mother's will was binding, _aren't final wills binding?_ But after the funeral, Mycroft had explained to him, in the tone of voice that a very reasonable older brother uses with a younger sibling hell-bent on self-destruction—he had explained that, while the substance of the will could not be altered, there were certain, shall we say, _clauses_, that would prevent any of their mother's money being spent in a reckless fashion. And then, for the first and last time, Sherlock regretted that he had spent so much time studying poisons and anaesthetics and hallucinogens, and had dedicated so little of his attention to tiresome things like _trustees_ and _subclauses_ and _conditions._ Because those things were suddenly so much more important than he had ever imagined they could be. And it didn't matter, in the slightest, that he stopped the coke soon after, when his fingers grew numb. It didn't matter that he saw a psychiatrist—unwillingly, but how else would he get himself certified well?—or that he attended the requisite number of therapy sessions (though he would never admit it to Mycroft, his psychoanalyst hadn't been half-bad, either; much to his surprise, she had seen through just enough of his defences to make him begrudgingly respect her, and had toed the line at his most vulnerable boundaries, thereby earning her his gratitude as well). No, none of it mattered, not even when he started working for Lestrade, because it turned out that, as the trustee of the estate, as the executor of the will, the entire decision was up to Mycroft. No bill of clean health, no statement from a psychiatric psychoanalyst or a detective inspector or a former military doctor would be enough for Mycroft to relinquish the estate.

In the meanwhile, his older brother had seen to it that their mother's money was wisely invested, and had set aside a portion of the fund for general upkeep of the houses in Tintagel and Cádiz, so that whenever Sherlock wanted to use them, he could. But he never felt that they were quite _his_, not when Mycroft still had signing power over his checks, not when Mycroft decided who could and could not enter Sherlock's life. It had been a surprise when he had found a flatmate in whom Mycroft, at last, could place his trust. John Watson was respectable, brave, and there was no doubt about his feelings regarding _service._ It had put a bit of a wrench in Mycroft's plans, John's refusal to spy on Sherlock for him, but upon further reconsideration, Mycroft thought it was better that way, better that Sherlock could absolutely trust someone, since he, as his older brother, had lost that trust long ago.

Sherlock did not visit his houses, had not seen them in perhaps half a decade, maybe more. He missed the Moorish courtyards of Cádiz, the trellises of fragrant _nardos_ and honeysuckle that his great-aunt had planted and that were still tended by a _jardinero_, he imagined. He missed the ships in the port, and the smell of the sea, common to both Cádiz and Tintagel, and he missed his mother most of all, for those had been her places, her retreats when things had got too heated with Sigur, or when she needed the silence to practice her piano and care for the wild Cornish roses at Tintagel.

Sherlock wanted to tell John about this, to begin to unravel the last tight secrets of his life before John, but he didn't know where to begin. How to say, for instance, that he had been judged incompetent to manage his own affairs? That he had agreed to work for Mycroft, for this case and whatever other Moriarty cases came their way, in exchange for a release from that judgment? What would John—

"Sherlock?" John's soft voice interrupted his reverie.

"Sorry. Thinking."

"Yes, I'd perceived as much. Are you going to tell me why you decided to help Mycroft with this case?"

"I'm afraid that I'm bound to help him on this one and every other involving Moriarty."

John laughed. "That's not so bad, is it? I mean, you would have done so anyway."

"Maybe so," Sherlock grumbled. "But I can assure you, I wouldn't be doing things _his_ way. The hotel, the art heist, the set-up – not my style."

"I had gathered as much."

"Thing is, John—oh fuck it, do really you want to know the worst about us? About how my twisted little family works?"

"Can't be any worse than mine," John joked. "Go ahead, give me what you've got."

"I can't get my inheritance until Mycroft signs off on it. And he hasn't been willing to do so, since—since—since I was using."

John did not respond immediately. Sherlock scratched madly at his head.

"_Say_ something, John! Why won't you _say_ something?"

"What do you want me to say? That your brother is a rotter? Because, I assure you, I've said it before." Sherlock noticed, then, that John had clenched his fists. _On my side, then,_ the younger man thought. _On my side, despite Harry, despite being in Mycroft's place. He's mine._ _John. Mine._

"I guess what I want to say is—how did he get that power in the first place?"

"I was underage when my father was dying. And my father was the executor of my mother's will. He assigned Mycroft as the executor of both of their wills, and that meant—"

"That you haven't seen a penny of their money?" John let out a slow exhale.

"Not quite. I have an allowance. Not enough for a flat of my own in central London, mind, but enough to get me by when cases are scarce. And Mycroft will advance me sums, occasionally, from the trust, provided I give him 'good reason' to do so. But, in essence, it's locked in place until he dies. Or until he says otherwise, and puts it in writing."

"This can't be right," John said, shaking his head. "Why is he doing this to you? Can't he see that you're fine, now? What more is he waiting for? Do you have to join a nunnery to prove that you're well?" He scratched at his chin, considering. "Does this mean that you wouldn't have been looking for a roommate, if you hadn't been short on funds?"

"Correct," Sherlock said curtly. "But I don't see how that has anything to—"

"Just wanted to make sure I understood. We wouldn't have met if you had had your own flat, you know."

"It's irrational to dwell on coincidence, John. Who knows what would have happened if I had had Baker Street to myself, if you hadn't been shot in the shoulder, if you'd never joined the Army, if I'd never tried coke—too many hypotheticals."

"Fine. Let's stick with what we know. Your brother, who is a control freak and a sadist—I think we can agree on that? Yes? Good. Your brother has decided to toy with you until you give him everything he wants, having you chase after some criminal mastermind with him, and he _still_ won't admit that you're competent enough to manage your own affairs? Jeez, if you're sane enough to deconstruct Moriarty's criminal empire, I certainly hope you're sane enough to balance your own bank account."

"And what do you suppose I should do about it?"

"Hire an attorney."

"Please tell me something I _haven't _already considered, John."

"Well, if you really want to piss off Mycroft, you could join Moriarty. I bet he pays well, too."

Sherlock glared at him. "That's possibly the worst idea I've ever heard of."

"You do realize I was joking, don't you?" John sat back in his seat. No, Sherlock hadn't caught the sarcasm in his voice; that much was clear from the expression on his face. John folded his arms and assumed a businesslike tone. "Alright, then, what do you have to do?"

"_Do_?" Sherlock sounded puzzled.

"Yes, what do you have to _do_ to get Mycroft off your back? He can't have you at his perpetual beck-and-call, now can he?" Sherlock did not answer immediately. "Or _does _he? This is blackmail, you know, Sherlock."

"Yes, thank you, John!" the detective snapped in a nasty tone. "I trust I'm sane enough to recognize when I'm being blackmailed, I've certainly had experience of it where Mycroft is concerned!"

John rubbed the back of his neck, then turned his head from left to right to work out a stray crick.

"What I guess I want to know is, why now?"

"Why now what?" There was frustration in Sherlock's voice.

"Why did you decide to work for Mycroft now? Was it because of the opportunity to bring down Moriarty?"

"You know I'd be interested in that at any time."

"Exactly. You'd be interested in it in any case, but you probably would go about it on your own terms, wouldn't you? I mean, infiltrating a criminal empire isn't exactly your speciality. You're more of a homicidal analyst."

Sherlock smiled at that. He steepled his fingers together under his chin. "_Homicidal Analyst_….I like that. Do you think I could get that made up on a business card? _Consulting Detective and Homicidal Analyst_?"

"You can print whatever you like on your business cards, Sherlock. That's beside the point. I wanted to know if there was a reason why you wanted to help Mycroft _now_." He looked pointedly at the detective.

"Do I have to have a _reason_ to want to reclaim my own inheritance?"

"That's rich, coming from you! _Of course_ there's a reason."

_You're the reason, John, but how can I tell you that? _Sherlock thought. _You will think it was entirely too presumptuous on my part, to count on anything coming out of this trip, and it wasn't really that. So how do I explain? Abuela would have said that I am growing up—she loved to tell me that, when she noticed the changes in me from summer to summer, and with her it didn't sound condescending. _Maduro_, mature, like a fruit coming into season: the ripeness of fresh figs, _brevas,_ oranges _sevillanas_, Cornish strawberries, Kent's apples. She would have said that I am growing up, and that's why I want my inheritance. Not because of the money, but because of what it will let me do, because of the life that I can plan with it. I don't know how to say this to John, or Mycroft. If they knew that I'm tired of this peripatetic lifestyle—no, not tired of Baker Street, _per se_, certainly not tired of The Work, but tired of feeling bound to it, bound to Mycroft, caught in this constant uncertainty about what will happen __**later **__– they wouldn't recognize me in that. Because I do want there to be a later, now. I didn't think I'd live past thirty and I'm almost half a decade to forty, so there are certain things that have to be settled. Predicting an early death only gets one so far in planning for the rest of one's life. _

"I want to be able to make plans," Sherlock said abruptly. "I can't—you know I love The Work—"

"Still on about being married to it?" The side of his mouth twitched.

Sherlock ignored him and continued. "—But I don't expect you to understand, how could you? You've always had a _degree_, and then a _profession_, and a _rank – _hell, you must have been looking for these things, they don't just fall in your lap, you know – and now a pension and a locum post, and any and all of those things that people _have_, when they _plan_ to live eighty years."

"You have a rank, too, I might remind you!"

"Not one that's going to get me anywhere in this day and age! And you've entirely missed the point."

"Try being a little clearer with me, and I might understand you better."

"I'm not going to die," Sherlock said. "Don't you see how, when you think you're going to die young—"

"_I_ thought I was going to die young, too." John voice was quiet, backed by an edge that Sherlock didn't understand.

"When you don't know about the rest of your life, when you think you'll go out with a bang, then things like bank accounts and stocks and trusts don't matter very much, do they?"

"What has changed, Sherlock?" John asked, very, very gently.

"_You_ have changed. You have changed _me,_ that is. Even before this week. We can't keep going on like we have done. Or, rather, we can, but no matter how hard I push myself, no matter how many guns I throw myself in the way of, _I can't seem to die. _And now I really, really, don't want to." The knuckles on Sherlock's hands were white where he was gripping the hand rests; his mouth had twisted into a terrible expression, one between fear and regret, and John thought for a moment that Sherlock would rise and climb over him and escape to the loo. But he just sat more determinedly in his seat, and raked his fingers through his birds-nest of a coiffeur, and wheezed a bit, until John's hands were on Sherlock's shoulder, and then pulling him closer, and their lips were touching again, and it really didn't matter to either of them that there were two teenage girls seated directly behind them, because when you're kissing your new lover at 30,000 feet, and he's scared and shaking and you never see a man like _him_ behave like _this,_ there are more important things to worry about than whether or not the people behind you are getting off on your kisses.

* * *

><p>There had been a similar kind of desperation in their love-making the night before, that long night when neither had slept, their rhythms still off-kilter from the riverside ramblings of new year's morn.<p>

John had found Sherlock pacing around the living room when he returned to the suite at dusk, after a brief outing to the gourmet grocer's at Columbus Circle. He held up a pair of brown paper bags, indicating that he had brought them dinner, but Sherlock was even more disinterested in food than usual.

"Something amiss?" John asked.

"I can't _think_," Sherlock whinged.

"What are you trying to think about?" John set down the shopping bags on the table and began to unpack their contents.

"Mrs. Hudson."

"What about her?"

"I don't mind that she knows about us; we already talked about this, John. But then if she goes around comparing us to the _married ones_, or discussing our love life with Mr. Chatterjee—. Or if she buys us matching ties, or something ridiculous like that—and I don't even _wear_ ties, you know that they make my throat itch something fierce. But knowing Mrs. Hudson, she wouldn't stop at ties, she'd decide to paint the flat in rainbow colours, and next thing we'd know, the old wallpaper would be torn down, which I happen to like quite a bit, that old wallpaper, all those curlicues and brocaded bits. And I don't think I could _stand _it if she took it down. Not for rainbow colours. They're just not _me_."

John bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

"And then there's Anderson." Sherlock spun around, gesticulating incomprehensively at the room around him. John smirked. "_Anderson_."

"You don't think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself?" John asked calmly. Sherlock's eyes went wide.

"A bit _ahead_ of myself, John? I'm simply considering all of the possibilities." His voice had taken on an unusually high pitch.

"I've never known you to fixate on the least likely outcomes. That isn't like you."

"Are you saying that I've gone mad? That's _just_ what I need right now, you telling me that I don't know how to _think_. Think! When all I _do_ all the bloody day and night is _think think think._" He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at a few stray curls.

"I'm saying that maybe you need to take a step back and _stop_ thinking, for once. Let things take their own course." He paused. "Or, maybe, you could decide how you want things to go. We _do _have some say over the matter, after all."

"Over what matter?"

"How we tell people that we're together."

"We didn't have much say over Mycroft," Sherlock pouted.

"Really? All things considered, I thought you handled that extraordinarily well." Sherlock felt a spark of warmth curl up in his chest. _I've done something well. John thinks I've done something well. _

"It's not that complicated, really. All you—we—need to do is decide how and when to let people know. Starting with the people we see the most. Mrs. Hudson, of course. Then, perhaps Lestrade, the folks at the Yard."

"What about Harry?"

John set down the bottle of wine and went to the dashboard for the corkscrew and glasses that the hotel had thoughtfully provided with the suite. He returned to the table and peeled the seal off the neck of the bottle, inserted the screw, and deftly removed the cork.

"Wine?"

"Yes, thank you. What about Harry?"

"I think she'll be the easiest to tell. Was planning to do it by text, if you really wanted to know."

"Can I read what you write? Before you send it?"

John shrugged. "If you like. Wasn't planning to say much."

"What were you going to write?"

"Oh, something along the lines of, 'You were right. Officially seeing my genius flatmate. Now bugger off.' "

Sherlock gaped. "You actually talked to her about me?"

"Not by choice," John admitted, taking a sip of wine. "Kind of like the way you talked with Mycroft about me—you didn't bring it up, I assume. Harry confronted me about you a number of times, asked me when I was going to get up the courage to let you know how I felt. She'd been reading the blog. Reading between the lines, that is. I told her to piss off, of course. And didn't tell her about Wales, in case you were wondering."

"Not wondering," Sherlock said briskly.

"Liar," John countered. Sherlock smiled. They both grew silent. Sherlock swirled his wine, watching the rich red liquid descend along the concave interior of the glass, falling apart in red sheaths. He took his place on the sofa, lazily leaning back into the dense cushions.

"And Lestrade?"

"Look, Sherlock," the other man said, bending one knee to rest his foot on the chair, "I don't know how this is ordinarily done. Usually, it's just a casual thing, you know, uh, when you let people know. Perhaps, uh, if you like, I could—talk to him?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "By yourself?"

"Yes. Take him out for a pint. That kind of thing."

"Ah, 'man to man,' I see. Over a football match, too, with a basket of chips between you?"

"You're a man, too," John pointed out. "It doesn't have to be at a pub. Just—that's less formal. Not like at the Yard. Neutral territory. And Greg likes beer."

"Neutral territory."

"_Look,_ this kind of thing happens every day. People are interested in each other, they go out, they let their friends know. The end."

"It doesn't happen every day to _me_." His voice was soft and uncertain.

"And that is what makes me so incredibly lucky, don't you see?" John gave him a broad smile, and Sherlock's breath quickened. "That I get to be doing this with _you_, of all people."

"But you said this was ordinary."

"No, what I said is that this kind of thing happens every day. Not between you and me, that's not ordinary. But people get together all the time. I'm sure even Lestrade can understand that."

Sherlock did not reply. He continued to swirl the wine in his glass, quickly calculating how much aeration the tempranillo would require before its aroma fully opened.

"Sherlock?" The younger man looked up. "It'll be fine."

"Fine for _you_, maybe. No one will be surprised at _you_ starting a relationship. Doctor John, Don Juan, Don Giovanni—"

"Oh, _shut it!_" John snapped with surprising vehemence. "You know that's not true. I'm not some kind of Don Juan. Don't you _dare_ taunt me for the relationships I've had. You've had them too, you know. I'm not the only one here who has a past, and I'm not the only one taking a risk." Now John was pacing around the room, waving his empty glass, as Sherlock sat frozen on the sofa, cowed by the anger in John's voice.

"You think that they'll talk about you at the Yard? Of _course_ they'll talk about you at the Yard. They talked about Greg's wife, didn't they? And once you clued them in to Donovan and Anderson, you can bet that was grist for the mill, too. You're not the only one who gets talked about, you know."

"Yes, but—."

"Have you even given any thought to what they'll say about _me_? You don't think it's _humiliating_ to be called your pet, your picker-upper, your fucking dodo bird? How do you think _I_ feel about it? Huh? How do you think _I've_ felt, all these months, with Mycroft's insinuations and Mrs. Hudson's assumptions and Anderson's sneers, and you always being so bloody superior, going around with your collar turned up and your cut-glass voice and your long strides, and leaving me behind at a crime scene when I have no idea where you're heading towards next, and then wrecking the flat with your experiments _when I have a day job too, you know,_ and it's not about picking up after Sherlock. I didn't sign on for any of that—" He lowered his voice, and spoke more slowly, as he came over to the sofa where Sherlock was seated. "I didn't sign on for any of that, and that's what I've got these last two years, and I've been hanging on and hanging and waiting, yes, _waiting_ for you, Sherlock, because I always thought that there could be something between us, if you would just open your eyes and _see_. So it was really the last straw, when you told me that I _see but do not observe_, because I see quite a bit more than you give me credit for, Sherlock Holmes."

"Uh—er—that is—Yes," Sherlock stammered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, you're right. You see more than I give you credit for." He pursed his lips together tightly, as if he were afraid that John would want to pry another confession from them.

"So you can understand why this is a big deal for me, too?" John said gently. "Because—because I'm not used to being number two, and I don't just mean in the military context. But somehow—" he sighed. "Somehow, when I'm with you, I'm always the one people think of last."

"You're not an afterthought," Sherlock said firmly, shaking his head. "You're so much more than that. You don't seriously believe that Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson and everyone else thinks that you're my _housekeeper_, do you?"

John sighed. "No, I don't really think that, Sherlock. But you can understand if I get frustrated sometimes, too, and if I have my own reasons for not being terribly excited about telling the Yard about us. You catch my drift?"

"Quite," Sherlock murmured. "Is this about me not buying milk?" He bit his lip, and if John didn't know him better, he would have said that Sherlock looked nervous.

"No, but as long as we're on the topic—," John began, then laughed. "It's not about the milk. But that's sweet of you to say so." At the expression on Sherlock's face, he backtracked. "Not _sweet_, then, alright. Considerate. How does that sound?"

"Tolerable," Sherlock grumbled, kicking his feet against the coffee table.

"You know what I like about you, Sherlock?" John asked. "You must be the only person in the world who wants to come across as _worse _than he actually is."

"Worse at what?" He sat upright, looking around the room.

"Not worse, maybe that wasn't the right word. More like—you're a good person, Sherlock, and yet you keep insisting that you're not. And that's just so funny to me, that you can't see yourself the way _I_ see you. The way Mrs. Hudson sees you. Lestrade too, if you would give him half a chance." John took a sip of wine and they both sat, thinking.

"I'm not a good person."

"Hah! Keep telling yourself. The more you deny it, the more I'll tell you it's true."

"It's _not_." Sherlock scowled. "I'm messy and selfish and—I told you all this when we met, John. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end—"

"Not in my experience."

(_You're so bloody smug, John, the way you're sitting there, looking at me. I can't stand it. I can't stand how __**blind**__ you are, yes, how much you don't see about me, for instance, how I'm never going to let go of you, and you'll be trapped, and you won't __**see**__ in time…_)

"—and I play the violin in the middle of the night—"

"True, but you play like a bloody concert master, so I can't really complain, can I?"

(_I would complain, John, if you woke me up, that is, if I slept as much as you do and you were the one with nighttime activities that I wasn't invited to. I would complain, very much. And loudly._)

"—and I leave viscera in the sink, and I shoot holes in the wall—"

"Yes."

(_Yes?_)

"—and I run around in my dressing gown—"

"Go on, I like that bit," John said, smiling.

(_You weren't __**supposed **__to like that bit! It wasn't for your gratification. I swear, I never __**meant**__ it that way. I have sensitive skin—eczema if you really want to know, hence, silk robe. You purposefully misunderstand me._)

"—and I can't be bothered to tell what time of day it is, much less which month we're in—"

"You're completely absentminded."

(_Yes, exactly, that's what I'm trying to tell you, John, I'm a terrible person, rubbish for company, don't have an idea why you'd want to—_)

"—and my blog isn't interesting, as you've pointed out, the only traffic it gets these days is because of the links you post to it."

"Nonsense!" John stood up, coming over to where Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, having kicked his shoes across the room in a fit of pique. He carefully removed Sherlock's wineglass from his hand and set it down on the endtable next to the sofa. "That's all nonsense," he said, looking down at Sherlock. "You know I love you anyway."

"You're an idiot," Sherlock retorted.

"Takes one to know one," he countered, then grew serious. "What do you want tonight?" John asked, pressing Sherlock down against the cushions. John's knees were flush against Sherlock's hips, pinning him in place, and when he heard the other man's voice grow deeper, Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head loll against the sofa.

"I—," the younger man began, then went silent. "I—." He half-opened his eyes, looking up at John with a sultry, sleepy expression, as if he had already been had that evening.

"Yes?" John urged.

"You are still an idiot," Sherlock said.

"I know. What should I do about it?" John cocked his head.

With John's eyes on his, Sherlock reached down and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. He worked his way down slowly, pausing before opening each button to confirm that John was still looking at him. The doctor's breaths grew faster and then, shallower, as Sherlock spread apart the cloth and revealed his bare chest. The other man shifted slightly above him to accommodate Sherlock's hands, which reached under his belt to pull the shirtsleeves out of his trousers. Then his long fingers drifted up John's arms, catching slightly on the rough wool of his jumper. Sherlock's mouth was parted, eager, red and swollen. He felt his way past John's shoulders to grasp his lover's face and bring it down to his own.

The first kisses were soft and light, new introductions to each other's bodies. John noticed the taste of Sherlock's breath, all grapes and figs, and the warmth that spread between them as the intensity of their kisses grew. When Sherlock caught John's jumper by the hem, John placed his hands on top of Sherlock's and pulled the jumper off before his partner could fumble with it any longer. He wore a light undershirt below that showed his upper arms to good effect, and Sherlock arrested his attention on John's biceps, now caressing them with his hands as their mouths returned to kiss each other.

It was hard to say when the kisses changed from light, searching movements to the reckless pressure of tongues and teeth and cut-off breaths and sighs. But it wasn't long before John pressed his weight onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock scrambled to unbutton his shirt at the wrists and twist out of it, and then he ran his hands up under John's tee and pulled that layer off, as well, so that their bare chests were against each other at last, warmer even than before.

"Let's go inside," one of them whispered, and in unison they rose and headed towards the bedroom, kissing and stumbling through the living quarters, eager to find the bed but reluctant to let go of one another, to break the bind of their mouths.

"You first," one of them said, pushing the other down against the bed and reaching for the belt buckle.

"I want—" one of them—Sherlock?—began.

The other—John, it was John—answered in soft tone, "What do you want?"

"I want to see you naked. I want to be on top." They switched positions, both shaking out of their trousers, John now lying down in only his pants, his legs spread wide, his erection high and tight against his pelvis. Sherlock traced its outline with his fingers, noting how the cotton was stained with a drop of precum.

"You get hard so quickly," he observed. "I scarcely have to touch you."

"You're not much different," John retorted. "Now, are you going to keep playing with me like that, or—"

"Yes, I'm going to keep on like this," Sherlock replied. "I'm going to touch you like this, lightly, just so, and watch the tension build in your body and watch that wrinkle form in your forehead as you try to hold yourself back. But you don't have to hold yourself back. I don't care how quickly you come. No, that's no _quite_ true—." Sherlock ran his finger up and down John's covered shaft before dipping under the side of his pants to fondle the edge of his balls. "I'd like to keep you waiting, for a bit, but it's just as interesting when you _can't_ wait and you spring out all over both of us."

"Like a bloody teen," John said with gritted teeth.

Sherlock smiled impishly down at him. "Nothing the matter with that," he said. "Some say the best sex is the first sex."

"Like a virgin, eh? Then they don't know what they're missing."

John held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to find the underside of his scrotum; he liked the feel of his lover's fingers there, in the dark places between his legs, the folds and crevices where John couldn't see. But Sherlock had other ideas; he withdrew his hands and grabbed at the elastic waistband, pulling the pants down and off, releasing John's cock. The older man spread his legs wide and willing, his tendons straining against their limits as he sought to go wider, to open himself to the very fullest to Sherlock's gaze, to Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock brought his mouth down and licked the smooth glans that was now straining forth, swollen and unencumbered, from John's foreskin. His fingers tangled in the short hair at the base of his shaft, pulling gently as his tongue ran circles around the peak of John's penis. John reached for Sherlock's hips, trying to pull off the other man's pants, but Sherlock wrestled away and pinned John more tightly against the bed.

"Can't you let me be in charge for now?"

John was moaning now, and he jerked his hips in surprise at Sherlock's words, before Sherlock released him and whispered for him to hush. And then Sherlock's mouth was back on his glans: quick, wet tugs with his lips to prepare the foreskin before he took the shaft more deeply into his mouth. John tasted like salt and soap and sweat; he had showered before going to the store, and Sherlock calculated that it was the effort of the errand and John's recent arousal that caused the musky smell to override the fresh clean scent of the soap. He was clean enough for what Sherlock had in mind.

Licking his way up and down John's penis, Sherlock took his time before descending to his balls, gathering first one into his mouth, then its pair, postponing John's completion with this other, intimate act. "You like it when I suck your balls," he murmured. John grunted his assent, pushing against the bed with his feet, his knees bent, still pinned wide against the mattress. "I have been wondering what else you might like," Sherlock began, lifting his face from John's groin and moving up to kiss his lover's mouth. Sherlock's lips and chin were damp with his own saliva, his mouth swollen with kisses and friction and desire. John bucked against Sherlock's hips, pressing their erections together, and reached again for the younger man's pants, but Sherlock pulled his hands away and, in one deft motion, rolled off of John and over to his side, then tucked his hand under John's chest and flipped him so that he lay on his stomach. Instinctively, John's legs came together again, but Sherlock wedged his hands between his thighs and urged them apart.

"I know you said—no—"

"Nothing inside me," John clarified.

"Nothing inside you," Sherlock repeated. He dipped his head to the small of John's back, setting light kisses along his sacrum. He loved the dimples above each of John's legs, those slight impressions, inexplicable in their function, that marked the boundary between torso and limb, back and buttock, public and private. He licked his way from dimple to dimple, sensing the tension ease from John's body as he settled more deeply into the mattress and spread his legs more widely. His testicles were just visible in the dark space between his thighs, low-hanging fruit that Sherlock ignored for now. Instead, he grasped each of John's buttocks and slowly pried them open, lifting his head to gaze at the tight pink button that lay between them. John felt cold, open, exposed, but when Sherlock lowered his mouth to the top of the groove in his arse, he felt warm spread under the pressure of Sherlock's lips, his tongue, as he slithered his way down to that waiting nub.

"I'm—I'm—" John gasped, wiggling away from Sherlock's tongue in his haste to let him know that it was alright, he was _clean_, for godssake, but Sherlock didn't have to do this, Sherlock didn't have to—

"I know you showered," Sherlock said huskily. "And I trust you did a thorough job of it, too. You smell _wonderful._" And to show that he trusted him, he ran his wet tongue over the opening, ringing the hole in slow, predictable slides until John wanted _more_, and that position was _not_ doing it for him, so he rose on his elbows and knees to thrust his arse more fully into Sherlock's face. Sherlock followed him, losing contact for one terrible instant, while John grasped at his own cock and began to stroke with the long, hard pulls that he used on himself, as Sherlock continued to lick and kiss his arse.

"_Ho-o-oly fuck,"_ Johnsaid with a shudder, holding fast to the sheets with his right hand while his left hand worked his cock. Sherlock continued his antipodal kisses—_or were they obscenities?_—and the noises that they both made indicated that John's pleasure was matched by Sherlock's own satisfaction at giving John something that, doubtless, he had never been given before, something that he probably had not even dared to think about, before Sherlock, before this week and this night and this wet mouth pressed against his arsehole, teasing at those most sensitive of nerve-endings, sucking the pleasure out of him the back way while John continued to work his own front.

"You know I want to come inside you," Sherlock said, pulling back abruptly to speak. John began to turn around, taken off guard, wanting to protest, wanting to surrender, but waiting, waiting—. "But I won't. Not tonight. Not like this. Here—" Now Sherlock knelt on the bed and, still on his knees, made his way over to the bedstead, removing the lube and the condom from the drawer. "You are going to do me," he instructed, handing John the equipment and moving to take the same posture that John had formerly assumed. "You're aroused," Sherlock noted. "And you're not going to last long, if I keep eating you out." John groaned despite himself. "So I want you to—_yes…._" Sherlock said with a drawn-out, sibilant _yes_, as John was now spreading _his _buttocks, and reaching between them for Sherlock's entryway, and now John's skilled fingers were pressing past the tight ring, and rubbing up against the smooth interior wall, and Sherlock nearly leapt backward in his eagerness to _feel John inside him_, his hands or his cock or his toes or whatever organ, really, John chose to put inside. One finger first, and then two, and Sherlock felt himself expanding, felt that burn of muscle saying _no_ when his brain was still saying _yes yes yes_, and he wriggled around John's fingers, because he wanted _more,_ more like that, yes _more, _John, _more_. But John had pulled away, had pulled his lovely fingers out, and Sherlock was bereft, Sherlock was alone, agog and abandoned, until he heard the crackle of the wrapper and counted the seconds that it would take John to get the condom on. Then he tilted his hips upwards, presented his arse for John, and waited for the fingers to return, secure and reassuring, probing and throbbing and stretching him until they were replaced by the soft head of his lover's cock.

The strange thing about this kind of loving, and perhaps any kind of penetration—though he didn't have the right genotype to make the comparison, Sherlock mused—was that it required movement_,_ drive, _in moto perpetuo_, storm and stress and time and direction, for anything to come of it. Love-making wasn't about simply being _inside_ the other, it was about a sort of directed motion, this urge towards completion that demanded a rhythm, a forward-thrusting, a refusal to stay in one place. He could keep John inside him, still and hard, for hours, and it would not do to him what John's swift strainings were now doing, opening him and rending him and wrecking him, yes wrecking him upon this sea-coast, this other country, them rising and falling together—like _this_—as John grasped his hips and he grasped at himself, and they each came to completion at their own time.

John was several seconds behind him, still holding himself back even as he felt Sherlock tighten around him, prolonging the pleasure to make it greater, and when he finally let himself go with a final strong thrust, he barked out the younger man's name, like an order, before laying himself down on top of Sherlock. He nestled his head into the back of Sherlock's neck, smelling the grass-clean scent of shampoo and sweat, and shuddered into Sherlock with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Sherlock wriggled beneath him, pressing up to feel the long stretch of John's chest flat against his spine, and then he had settled back into the mattress with a sigh, eyes closed, muscles spent and soft.

* * *

><p>John thought again about their last encounter, the evening before, as he leaned over the seat rest and soundly kissed his boyfriend.<p>

He loved watching Sherlock prepare for his kisses, the way that the younger man closed his eyes almost as soon as he perceived that John was going to kiss him, waiting patiently for John to close those last few inches before their lips touched. The hesitation that Sherlock displayed, in those moments before the kiss, was in such contrast to how he had made love the night before, teasing John with new sensations, directing their movements, alternately startling and exciting John with the things he suggested. It was exactly this combination of worldliness and naïveté that John found so alluring in Sherlock, because he could never guess which side would prevail, whether in bed or on the street.

Sherlock was the man who didn't know that the earth went around the sun, who probably couldn't name the prime minister, and yet he could quote Shakespeare by heart and wax poetic on the strangest topics—dopamine agonists and medieval poisons, cigarette ash and soil acidity and binary code—while still looking absolutely astonished when John proposed kissing him in public. This was the man who would play Russian roulette with a vial of pills to prove how clever he was, and yet who quavered at the notion of what others might think if they found out he was more human than he let on. _But_, John mused to himself,_ he isn't really any more contradictory than I am, or anyone else. He's just so very, very human, this bundle of flesh and heat and sinewy limbs and black hair, this man, here, just a man. _

"What are you thinking of, John?" Sherlock asked after a few breathless minutes.

"Nothing," the other man said with a smile. "Nothing I can explain." He took a deep sigh. "You keep doing that, Sherlock, okay?"

"Doing what?" There was bewilderment in Sherlock's voice.

"Asking questions. Being you. You're a right dick half of the time, but that's what I love about you."

"That I'm a dick?"

"No, that you're _you_." He tried to extricate himself from Sherlock's long arms. "Now, scoot, let me get up. "

"Where are you going?"

"To stretch my legs."

"_If we shadows have offended,"_ Sherlock murmured.

"What?" John asked, turning back to look at him.

"Nothing. Just trying to remember something. _That you have but slumbered here…_."

"Let me know when I get back, okay? We'll talk more about Mycroft then, too." He looked fondly down at Sherlock, who had pulled his feet up on the seat and wrapped his arms around his knees, intently muttering to himself.

"…_all is mended…"_

"You imp," John said, as he reached down to rub at Sherlock's head. "On second thought, why don't you take a walk, too? Looks like you could use a break." He reached out for Sherlock. "_Give me your hands_."

* * *

><p><em>Nota bene:<em>

And yes, here we end. It has been one amazing time for me, writing this story and sharing it with so many enthusiastic readers.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I'll be posting an epilogue later with the list of NYC references, as well as the artistic references, but for now, let me just thank you for reading and for helping me to make it through this the winter of my heart's content, this fantastic interlude, this enchanted island, where I've had so much fun with these characters and their travails.

I'll be writing more SherlockBBC fanfic, but I can't say when. There are a few ideas floating around my head for shorter works. Let me know if you have any requests.

A few special shout-outs to moonblossom, lestew, syncsister, skyfullofstars, leew1, SeenaC, Mirith Griffin, vector-nyu, murdoke, lady ginger, Terrier, afrogeekgoddess, lukcy4track, dark knightress, haveacreamteaonme, power0girl, raven612, writeaddict, Sherlock'sScarf, as well as so many kind readers and reviewers, for your especial encouragement and for chats, PMs, and other communications regarding this fic and the SherlockBBC universe.

I'm around on tumblr, posting on fic-related stuff and also starting a series on erotic art. So come stop by, say hello.

Emma


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